The days that follow death are filled with rituals and details and their own to-do lists. Soon these busy hours will give way to ones of raw loss. I know that.  But until then, I’m still coasting on tales of my dad shared at the wake. On the love and support of family and friends. On the Brahms German Requiem in my ears as I walk. And on transcendence.

Two stories from my girls at the time of their grandfather’s passing. One sat down two hours later — unaware of what had happened, five time zones away in Africa — and wrote him a letter.

Another snapped this photograph of our street as she was leaving to fly here and be with me. It was taken in the exact hour of Dad’s passing and is as radiant and other-worldly as I’ve ever seen the place.

Coincidences? Probably. But today I’m believing otherwise.

(Photo: Claire Capehart)