Sometimes the days fly by and I'm laying in bed at 11 at night like "What just happened? Who are those giant little people who were sitting at my dinner table? Am I paying enough attention? Am I giving them enough?" But last weekend, we did it. We had one of those days that I hope lives in the yellow halls of their childhood memories forever.
We're finding that celebrating a holiday doesn't have to be a show. It just has to be what we want it to be. And this weekend is all about hope, good food, and time.
Dad wasn't perfect. He was good. He was a good person. He did good for others. He saw people. He loved people. And he often surprised people with quiet thoughtfulness. He was a savior. He was a confidant. He was a vigilante for your individuality in the middle of the night. He always wanted to curate an experience.