Dad, you got picked for everything

Dad, you got picked for everything. I remember going to Disney and waiting outside Superstar Television, a “show” where audience members were superimposed as characters in tv shows. Over many Disney trips, you were picked time and time again, even after you held me in the air so I could get picked - you still got picked. You were called down to dress in a costume at the Indiana Jones show. You were picked to do a trick with a sea lion at the zoo. You did the voice of Martin Short at an MGM Studios performance.. At the Barbie Show, I was so excited that I could finally get picked without competing with my Dad. Yet, they picked some other girl who barely smiled. 

The only time you weren’t picked was at Dame Edna, when Dame Edna picked Grandma Sullivan. And thank goodness for that because the hilarity of the conversation between Grandma Sullivan and Dame Edna could rank in the top ten Hoffman family moments. Dangit. Now I am going to spend time making a list of the top 10 Hoffman Family moments. Sidenote - I am only now realizing that I called my Grandma “Grandma Sullivan” like she was an 1800s duchess. I assure you she was not. 

I know science doesn’t work this way, but sometimes I feel like you got picked for COVID. The difference between a Peloton class with 60 people on March 7, to a half-attended Riverdance on March 10th, to an empty office on March 12, COVID escalated quickly, yet still didn’t seem real. Then Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson got COVID and all of a sudden, it was real. If Tom Hanks, one of the most lovable actors of our time, could get COVID, anyone could get COVID. I thought the world gave Tom Hanks COVID as a threat to the nation to take COVID seriously. The universe was saying “who do we have to give COVID to around here for people to take this shit seriously?! We need a non-controversial celebrity loved by most, known to all, and relevant across generations. Let’s start with Tom Hanks, with Meryl Streep on standby.” 

Phil, you were the non-famous Tom Hanks of COVID, except your fate was worse. People didn’t necessarily know what to make of COVID or how scared to be of COVID. And then you died of COVID. You had such a huge network of people in your life that all of a sudden, hundreds of people knew an amazing person who died of COVID. COVID was real and could take anyone, even the best of the best, even the ones waiting to retire with their spouses to travel the world, the ones waiting to walk their daughter down the aisle, the ones desperate to see what colleges their grandkids would choose, and the ones waiting for the Rangers to win the Stanley Cup again. 

Dad, you got picked for everything. Why did you have to get picked for COVID? 

Dad, I feel guilty skiing

I went skiing in 2021 because it felt like the safest trip to take during the pandemic. Desperate to get out of NYC and take some time off work, our friends suggested a ski trip. We would be safe outside, in nature, wearing masks and balaclavas, not being forced to ride ski lifts with strangers, and eating at allotted times in the lodge to ensure social distancing.

I was so excited for this trip, even though I had never skied once in my life. When I look back now, I wonder what possessed me to get down with 5 days of doing a sport I had never done, a sport that required me to spend a lot of money just to play for a few days. But we were all a little desperate during COVID. We ate outside in 28 degree weather while wearing gloves. We isolated for days before holidays so that we could spend a few hours with loved ones. We started watching movies at home while on zoom with other people watching the same movie. We would do anything to feel connected, to feel sane, to feel like one day was different from the next.

As you may know from my newsletters, instagram stories, or coffee dates with me, I am now into year four of skiing and am gushing with love for the sport. The culture, the physicality, the outfits, the lodge french fries, the different types of season passes, the gear - I love it all. But every now and then, when my heart beats for skiing, it sinks because my Dad is dead.

How did skiing become an avenue of joy that is at a crossroads with immense grief? I went skiing because of the pandemic. Sure, maybe I would have found my way to skiing one day, but I am not confident that would be the case. With an annual trip to Aruba and several trips with Sung, I never imagined a ski week fitting into our allotted days off. I never felt like I was missing out because I didn’t ski. I didn’t think about skiing ever, really.

The pandemic brought me skiing. So every now and then, after an amazing ski day, feeling the highest of highs, I feel the lowest of lows that Phil isn’t here. Because if COVID didn’t happen, and Phil wasn’t dead, I wouldn’t be skiing. Skiing reminds me that he is dead.

Look, you can’t play the causation game for everything. I don’t walk around saying that if I had become a lawyer, I would never have ended up at Seamless, would have never met Sung, and then where would I be? If my Mom and I had not talked to this mother/daughter pair in the Bahamas when I was 9, maybe we would not have been inspired to take a mother/daughter trip and maybe we wouldn’t be setting off on our 18th trip to Aruba in a few weeks. If I hadn’t flown Jetblue on Spring Break, I would not have seen the ads for the new show, Top Chef, and would not have become the foodie I am today. That causation game can be paralyzing and doesn’t do much good.

That doesn’t change the fact that I think about my Dad a lot when I ski. How can I continue to enjoy skiing so much, when it reminds me that my Dad isn’t here? When I lost my Dad, there was so many types of losses - the loss of him, the times we would no longer share, the questions I could no longer ask him, all gone in an instant. And these losses poked a lot of holes in my life. I became a sponge, looking to soak up more life to fill all of these new gaps.

Needless to say, skiing does not fill the holes of the loss of my Dad. When someone loses a parent, I certainly don’t tell them to take up skiing to mask the loss. But losing my Dad created all of this space that I needed to fill, and I am glad I filled some of it with something that challenges me, that excites me, and that makes me feel so alive.

The more I miss my Dad, the more I know that I am doing something that I wish he wouldn’t miss. I am living.

Dad, I have some questions

“What would he say if he were here? What would he have written in this book if he’d had more time? There are still things I need to know; there is still advice I need to get from him. There is more to do together.”

- Carrie Soto is Back, Taylor Jenkins Reid

I was swimming in my Aunt’s pool in Peoria, Arizona on a beautiful October day. The Arizonians feared that the temperature being in the 80s would render the pool too cold to swim in. As a native New Yorker, my desire to swim outside in October would surely mask any chills from the water. Once settled into my pool tube, I knew I would float through the day with ease, sharing conversation with my Dad’s sister, her husband, my husband, and my Mom.

Conversation turned to my Dad’s mom, Lucille. Did you know they both died on the day of March 31st? Isn’t that bizarre? And should I steer clear of danger on that date each year? I was wondering if Lucille ever visited me in NY when I was a child or if my first meeting with her was in Arizona when I was 12. Carolyn & Eileen were pretty sure she never visited NY after I was born. For some reason though, I have an image in my head of a picture of us sitting out in the driveway at my house in Eastchester. But maybe that picture is with my other Grandma?

My Dad kept a database of everything we’ve ever done called the Hoffman Family Calendar. I did some control-find to track down Lucille entries, but there was no mention of a visit. I could also flip through some photo albums to find this alleged picture. But all I want is to ask my Dad because he’ll now the answer right away. He won’t need to reference the calendar or a picture to remember. He’ll just know.

The reality is that the answer to this question is relatively inconsequential. Whether my Grandma visited me as a child or met me at the age of 12 really doesn’t matter to me now. The challenge though is that when someone dies, they take their knowledge with them. And you look to journal entries, photos, and the memory of others to fill in the gaps where you can, but sometimes the answer lies only with the one who is deceased.

Dad, did Grandma come visit me as a kid? Dad, did you know that Galliano makes an espresso liqueur? Dad, did you ever go see an airshow as a kid, maybe with your Dad? I saw one last summer and it was pretty cool. Dad, can I have a binder you aren’t using to put all of my travel confirmations in? One of the thin binders, maybe 1 inch or less? Dad, are they still doing the NY Times Book Fair? Can you invite me again, just so I can watch you buy CDs like it is 1997? Dad, did you know they make Pepto Bismol in cherry flavor? Did you ever try that?!

Dad, there are still things I want to know. There is still advice I want to get from you. There are still things we need to do together. I am using all of my resources to get the answers I want. I channel everything I have ever learned from you to arrive at the advice you might give. I try to do things that I know we would enjoy together (Let’s Go Rangers) but none of it comes close to just having you here, available to answer my questions, give me advice, and have fun.

Something Happened on the Way to Heaven

There’s this great Phil Collins song called “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.” If it doesn’t ring a bell, listen to first 30 seconds. The instrumental sounds like you should be watching the Rangers hit the ice for a game or the cheerleaders running on the field.

Years ago, well before I was engaged, I always imagined this being the song that my family would come out to when introduced on the dance floor at my wedding. I wasn’t one to dream about my eventual wedding but I just knew this 60 second instrumental would be perfect. My plan was to not tell my parents about the song. I knew as soon as it came on, my Dad would love it.

In a weird way, this song has always made me emotional because whenever I would hear it, which is often since I put it on a lot of playlists, I would picture this great moment of my parents hitting the dance floor at my wedding. When I got engaged, I was so excited that I could finally surprise them with this song. And then my Dad died and the wedding was canceled. Hearing this song made me ten times more emotional, as I could still picture him making an entrance at my wedding, even though he never would.

When discussing entrances with my Mom, I told her I wanted to play this song. I ruined the surprise because I wanted to tell her my vision for her and Phil being surprised by this great tune. As we tried to figure out who should be introduced, it started getting a little complex. Should it be every single blood relative? Just Aunts & Uncles? Cousins too? Eileen finally said “actually, just you two should be introduced.” And she was right! We didn’t need a parade at our wedding. We scrapped the introductions which meant we had to scrap the Phil Collins song.

At first, I was heartbroken that this fantasy of mine was crushed twice, first by the fact that Phil would never get to walk out to it and then again by the fact that we wouldn’t even play it. The wedding came and went, and it was truly the best event of my life, and far exceeded my expectations. While on my honeymoon, jamming out to some music, the Phil Collins song came on. I felt emotional but had an amazing epiphany for myself.

I realized that it was a good thing we didn’t play the song. Not playing the song and not having the entrance acknowledges that Phil wasn’t at the wedding and that not everything was the same without him there. We thought the wedding would be bittersweet without him, and although we missed him dearly, it was truly a booty-shaking party full of love, laughter, and joy. Eileen and I did a great job planning it without him. Gary stood in to walk me down the aisle and was the perfect stand-in. Eileen gave an amazing toast. Every detail went off without a hitch. We felt his absence for sure, but that absence was filled in with 99 smiles.

This Phil Collins song will always be a reminder that this original wedding, this fatherly duty he had, the party Phil always wanted, didn’t go exactly as planned because he wasn’t there. The song is what I can hold on to to acknowledge his absence.

It’s his entrance song. Even though he missed his entrance, we carried on because he would have wanted us to have the party of a lifetime.

Let Me Phil You In

My colleague recently concluded a discussion by saying “I am happy to fill anyone in, pun intended.” His name is Phil. I laughed SO hard. Someone else referenced the joke as a great dad joke. If you are an adult who laughs extremely hard at “dad jokes”, that means you have a childlike sense of wonder, which you should be ever so grateful to possess.

My Dad’s name is Phil. I use the present tense because his name doesn’t change now that he’s dead. He may not be here, but his name is still Phil. Well, after I heard this “Phil you in” joke, I wanted to reach out to my Dad to ask him if he had ever utilized this play on words. I never heard him say it but that doesn’t mean he didn’t say it at work. I could ask his colleagues but I would rather just ask him.

Do you ever watch a crime drama where they are hunting down a very dangerous suspect and the Chief of Police says “take him alive!” They need the person alive because they have QUESTIONS! They want the answers before they left this suspect perish. I didn’t think I would have a lot of questions for my Dad because he recorded his every move in the Hoffman Family Calendar. He created a searchable encyclopedia of the details of our lives. The calendar holds information of what we did on certain dates. But I doubt it says “Phil makes joke about philling people in.”

It’s not that I need to know if he ever made that joke. It’s that I’m sad that I’ve the lost ability to pick up my phone, call his office, and just ask him. His response would be one of two things: yes I made the joke because DUH Kerry - it is so obvious OR wow I’ll make the joke today Kerry!”

If you have living parents, I’m not advising that you bombard them with daily questions of their every move so that you still feel whole when they die. What I would advise is to maybe swap “where do you want to go for dinner next week” to “what did you eat as a kid Mom?” You’ll be grateful to have that information in decades to come.

The more you know about your loved ones when you are both alive, the more you can find them everywhere they go when they die.

I Cheer For You

The Rangers came close to getting into the Stanley Cup Finals last season. I went to a few games with Mom and I took my fandom very seriously. I bought Rangers earrings and stickers. I wore a Rangers muscle tank. I wore your Rangers hat. I even bought blue lipstick.

I cheered like my life depended on it. I yelled and even cursed a little bit. I brought all of my energy to every game. I also brought all of your energy to every game. I did my best to stand in for you, to be you, to want those wins as badly as you wanted those wins.

One of the best ways I know to keep you alive is to stand in for you. I consider myself your representative everywhere I go. What would Dad say? What would Dad do? How would Dad react? Dad would yell at those people to sit down because they are blocking our view. Dad would be shocked by the 30 roadkill we counted on our trip down South. Dad would be so excited that there was Diet Root Beer at this BBQ restaurant.

Dad, it is so hard to balance missing you and representing you. Sometimes I just want to be sad that you are not here. I want to sit on my office couch and stare at your records I have hanging on my wall and wonder how I got robbed all of all of the fun things we had to left to do together.

Every time the Rangers won, I couldn’t believe the intensity in the full range of emotions. The more they won, the happier I was thinking they could win the Stanley Cup. But every time they won, I was so devastated that you were missing it. So which is better? If the Rangers lost, you wouldn’t be missing much. But if they won, you would miss the world.

No matter how hard it is to face the things you’ll miss, I’ll always choose the world you would want to live in. You wanted our wedding so badly and we still had it, even though you couldn’t be there. You wanted that Rangers Stanley Cup, so I’ll keep cheering every year until I die.

Dad, it is so hard to live in a world where you are missing so much, but I want to live in that world so I can see you, feel you, and bring you with me on this journey.

Let’s Go Rangers, 2022-2023!

I Miss You on the Train

I boarded Metro North for the first time in over a year, heading to Westchester for a wake. My husband and I became Brooklyn car owners in 2021 so our trips to Westchester to visit my Mom are now on the road and not on the rails. Blue Lightning, which is what we call our car, is not the only reason my Metro North ridership is down. Phil Hoffman, my father and train companion, is gone.

When I moved to Manhattan, I always took Metro North to get home to White Plains. I would coordinate a time with my Dad and we would meet in the back car. He would help me put my bag on the upper racks since I was often lugging holiday gifts or apartment goods I no longer wanted that Phil would inevitably find a use for. And we would talk for the 10 minutes before the train left through the 43 minute ride to Harrison. We rarely talked on the phone unless it was transactional, like me asking my Dad to review my apartment lease or give me his credit card for the wedding flowers. Our interactions typically happened over email or in person, so this 1-on-1 train time was very precious.

One Christmas season, we arrived home while my Mom was still at work. Phil grabbed a salami and a block of provolone from the fridge. I grabbed a knife and a cutting board while he opened 2 Beck’s Light beers. He used to sing the praises of Beck’s Light because he loved its 68 calorie count, relatively low for a beer. I didn’t point out that the beer was only 3.8% ABV. He liked it, which was all that mattered. Beck’s released a non-alcoholic beer which I drink now just to remember my shared beers with Phil. Neither of us grabbed a kitchen counter stool, opting to stand around the cutting board, slicing piece after piece of salami and provolone. 

One night of meat and cheese may not seem like something I would even remember years later. However, I was in my early 20s and that commute, that cheese, that beer, symbolized our shared experience as adults. Your parents will always be your parents, giving you advice, worrying about your finances and commenting on your lack of curtains. But sometimes, you share moments where you only feel like peers, and those moments stand out. 

Not every train ride culminated in a meat and cheese platter. Sometimes, I arrived home to tell my Mom everything I had already told my Dad on the train. Other times, we commuted in the morning and both slept for most of the ride. But it was still still special to have that train time with him.

I miss getting his emails saying he was swamped at work and would meet me for the 6:52PM train home. I miss getting a follow-up later that day saying he worked it out and could now leave at 5:21PM. I miss giggling with him as we told stories because I never rolled my eyes at his Dad jokes when we were alone. I miss this thing that I can’t get back in any way shape or form now that he is gone. 

On your next train ride with a friend or family member, talk to each other. Look at the scenery. Enjoy the ride. 

I went back to MSG

I bought tickets to a comedy show hosted by Jon Stewart & Pete Davidson in honor of the families of the victims of 9/11. The lineup promoted was insane - Dave Chappelle, John Mulaney, Amy Schumer, Wanda Sykes, Jimmy Fallon, and a bunch more. When I saw the lineup, I was immediately reminded of the Rainforest Concert hosted by Sting and his wife Trudie. The year you took me, Sting, Billy Joel, James Taylor, Lenny Kravitz, Sheryl Crow, Will Ferrell and a few more amazing artists performed. I had no idea Will Ferrell could sing! I was also blown away by Lenny Kravitz’s sex appeal. And who could forget our surprise guest, Russell Crowe.

I was prepared to pay $300 each for the tickets. I braced myself when the clock struck 12 and the pre-sale tickets became available. The cheapest seats were…$70! I sprung for the $90 tickets and honestly should have gone up another level in price. To support the victims of the families of 9/11 means a lot, and I hope to attend a show one day that supports the victims of the families impacted by COVID. But, there’s probably way too many of us. You got a piece of mail at the old house that was asking you to donate money to the families of 9/11. I screamed at the mail that you couldn’t help the families impacted by 9/11 because you were dead from COVID.

9/11 and COVID are not the same thing and don’t need to be compared. I feel a different closeness though to people who lost someone from a public and known tragedy that is highly covered by the news. It is different when people feel like they know a lot about the loss and are connected to it. All I know is that I still think about the families of the victims of 9/11 20 years later and I am happy to spend my money to support those families.

The show was at Madison Square Garden, your home away from home. To be there again for the first time since you’ve passed was pretty challenging. Just writing the words Madison Square Garden caused a heaving cry. But it still means a lot to be somewhere you’ve loved, as hard as it may be. The show was great and I honored your memory by reporting two people to security who were being obnoxious. You would have done the same.

Dad, I look for you everywhere I go. I try to bring you with me whenever I can. It’ll never be enough, but it is something and I’ll take what I can get.

I want to buy you bagels

In January, 2007, Mom and I went on our first annual trip to Aruba. And in July, 2021, we returned from our 14th trip together. We only skipped 2020. I always came to your house the night before the trip. Traveling to the airport together just made more sense than meeting at the airport. Texting wasn’t huge back in 2007, so we would have to call each other to coordinate upon arrival. I am sure we could have just planned to meet at the gate. And, we didn’t have to pay for 2 car services. Uber wasn’t quite a thing, so Mom would have paid for an expensive car service and I would have taken a pricey Yellow Cab or spent 90 minutes commuting on the train from my Avenue C apartment.

If you recall, Dad, we usually met up at Metro North to head to the house together. I would bring you a dozen bagels for the week we were away. I looked back on some old emails and over time, it became obvious that you would eat any bagel I brought home. Everything bagel was your favorite, but you were open to Sesame, Poppy, and Plain. You would freeze some and pack the rest as your breakfast for work. In retrospect, it seems odd that I didn’t just bring them to your office since you ate them at work. But I am not sure a dozen bagels would last in an office setting.

It was kind of challenging to carry the bagels sometimes because I also had all of my luggage. And I always wanted to get the bagels from great places, like Murray’s Bagels, not just some average bagel spot. I would go to the Village with my suitcase, purchase the bagels, and then lug the suitcase and the bagels to my office. At the end of the work day, we met at the train station, and you helped me carry my suitcase from there.

To be clear, you were perfectly capable of obtaining breakfast on your own when we were away. You had cereal in your office, which Mom and I found a bag of when we were cleaning it out in December. Those Cheerios were so stale and hard that we used it as a doorstop to bypass security so we could get to the bathroom. The bagels were a nice treat though. We were taking a mother-daughter trip and you were not invited. And some of those years, you shouldered most of my costs, so the least I could do was bring you some cream cheese.

Dad, you loved these bagels. Or, at least that is what you told me. In 2017, you said “So, every day I bring a bagel, have half with cream cheese for breakfast and the other half with cheese and/or salami or more cream cheese for lunch.  Not a bad diet!  Thanks for bringing them.” And in 2018, you wrote: “So, thanks to you, I adopted a weekday bagel diet.  One bagel per day, half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Lost 5 pounds!”

Sidenote: I too start a lot of sentences with So, and it all makes sense now. Oh, and I am So Very Kerry. So, thanks Dad for that.

Second Sidenote: Should I write a book about how to diet eating only bagels?

In 2019, I opted to meet Mom at the airport for the first time ever. We were leaving on a Saturday, so I wanted to spend Friday night with Sung. I didn’t bring you bagels. And now, I can’t bring you bagels.

One of the most challenging parts of grief is that memories come to you at random times and just cripple you. I had a dream about bagels and that’s what brought this memory back to me. I miss buying you bagels and lugging them around until I got home. I miss getting your emails on your bagel diets. I miss sharing a bottle of Cabernet with you the night before the trip, because you always loved having red wine with me when I am home.

So, I hope you enjoyed the last bagel you ever had. I don’t even know what the last bagel you had was and I can’t even ask you. But I’ll buy an everything bagel with low fat cream cheese soon and try to enjoy it the way you did.

We bought a car

We bought a car. We signed up for zipcar in March because we had a few small trips planned. We wanted to go furniture shopping in New Jersey. We did an overnight in Philly. We wanted to eat all of the pizza slices in New Haven.

Our zipcar luck was mixed. More than half of the cars smelled like stale cigarette smoke. One car was just straight up dirty. Another time, our reservation got canceled just two hours before we needed it.

In June, we took a zipcar to Montauk. It was clean and smoke free! When we arrived, I decided it was time to get back behind the wheel. I drove us to the lighthouse. I drove us to town. And then I drove around all night as we restaurant hopped. I was the sole driver for the entire weekend Dad! Instead of reaching my 9 year anniversary since my last time driving, I decided to let driving back into my life.

I always knew we would get a car one day. Friends move out of the city. Big furniture stores in the suburbs call your name. BBQs at Mom’s are easier by car. But our trip to Montauk and my time behind the wheel expedited our timeline.

Sung did a ton of research and made a shortlist. Our first stop was Volvo, to see the SUV XC40. The car on the lot was a bright blue. I immediately fell in love. I was pretty set on getting a blue car to honor you and your love of blue thunder.

We shopped at other dealers for the rest of the day. By the next morning, we were sold on the Volvo. We went to pick it up on June 29th, exactly 9 years to the day from the last time I drove Blue Thunder. Of course, I made them reprint the paperwork after I saw that the date on the contract was wrong. There’s that law degree paying off.

Dad, we named our car Blue Lightning. Seeing our new car will always make me think of you. I’ll always try to find ways to feel like we are connecting, even though you are gone. And getting a bright blue car felt like a way to see you more often. But I was still crushed when I couldn’t call to tell you. I played out our convo, me reading you our license plate and you trying to come up with the significance behind each letter and number.

People buy cars all of the time. For me though, this car purchase felt like one of those milestones that you should have been around for. I’ll always wish you were here, but some days, I really just can’t believe what you are missing.

I bought you a card

I bought this card for you Dad, or for myself I guess. You had a rotating pair of these New Balance sneakers. Mom did too, until she ditched them for cuter kicks.

When I saw this card, I knew it was the perfect card for you. You would have laughed pretty hard and wondered if I had it specially made. I’d struggle to find a gift to go with it, knowing full well that this card may have been enough for you.

I picked up the card to take a picture of it. I can’t send it to you, so why spend $7.95 to give this card to no one?

But maybe this card is for me. It’s a visual reminder of something you loved. And it is a message to me that even though you are not here, you still keep me balanced.

When I looked at this card a few hours later, I immediately started crying. How could this card that I just found bring out so much emotion? How can this card that you don’t even know about make my heart sink?

There’s the obvious sadness that I found this perfect card that I can’t give to you. I’ll always find things I want to give to you. And I’ll never be able to do that again.

Then there is the notion that even without you here, I play out how you will respond, what advice you might give, or how you would handle something. I can still hear you in my head, yet I can’t know if I’ve got it right. I can only guess.

And then there is this reality that since you’ve been gone, I’ve never felt more off balance. My life is like a gymnastics center. Some days, I’m just trying to walk straight without falling. Other days, I’m cleaning swinging from the uneven bars, high one moment, low the next, and flipping around until I’m upside down. And other days, I’m just running towards the vault, hoping to leap high enough and land on my feet.

I know you are not here to tell me how to stay balanced. All I know is that I had to buy this card for you, and for me too. And if all I got out of it was the opportunity to bring out the waterworks and write this letter to you, then it was $7.95 well spent.

We went to Second

A couple of weeks before the 1-year anniversary, I created a mini Manhattan tour to visit some of your favorite city spots. I started at Eleven Madison Park, where we dined in July, 2012 and again in March, 2018. I crossed the street to Madison Square Park, to the spot where I got married this past Fall. We left some of your ashes there. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to comprehend you dying 6 months before my wedding.

I moved on to the lego store, since you loved playing legos with Sean. Next, I walked by a restaurant where we had lunch. You made me guess the waiter’s name and hinted that his name was a unit of measurement. When I finally got it right and screamed “Miles"!” our waiter abruptly turned around. I remember us laughing hysterically.

I walked by the site of our original wedding, Second, which is also where I last saw you. We had dinner at L’Amico, the restaurant servicing our wedding. I put you in a cab and figured I would see you next month in Phoenix. But I never saw you again.

I journeyed on to Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Rangers. I’m so glad you raised a hickey family. It’s a great sport that doesn’t get the same love as football or baseball, and I don’t care.

I walked over to the Theater District, then to your office, and then to Whole Foods to enjoy chips and dip, one of your favorites.

Dad, you are truly everywhere. I can plan all of the Dad crawls I want, but I still see you every day. So many things remind me of you. And we are so similar that I see you in my own actions. I think about you every hour. Missing you is still all consuming. And you were all consuming. You can’t just wipe away someone like you.

Thanks for living a big life.

We Went to Crestwood Pizza

Mom prepared a Phil Hoffman tour for the 1-year anniversary of your death. We left your ashes at every spot. I was convinced the police would be on to us and think we were spreading anthrax all over town. Remember when anthrax was our biggest problem?

We started at Ebersole Ice Rink, where we spent so many hours in the 80s & 90s at Pat’s hockey practices and games. One night, you were outside talking to a group of parents. You were commanding everyone’s attention with one of your stories. I was inside on the other side of the glass, commanding the attention of a group of youngsters like me. Suddenly, all of the parents looked over and burst out laughing from the realization that we were so similar, holding separate courts with our peers, talking, gesticulating, and leading.

Next, we headed to two of your favorite restaurants, Graziella’s and BLT. Shrimp Parmigiana and a Harvey Wallbanger was your go-to order at Graziella’s. They kept Galliano in stock for you so you would always have your drink. And they made the shrimp parmigiana even when it wasn’t on the menu. At BLT, you were a noted VIP, receiving specials and discounts with every visit.

Our last stops for Day 1 took us to Eastchester, where lived for almost 12 years. We picked up a slice of lasagna pizza from Crestwood Pizza and had the unfortunate task of sharing the news of your passing with the owner. We ate that slice in your honor. I’m sorry we teased you about it for so many years. It was pretty good! We drove by our house, and I pictured us making home movies in the yard for school projects.

We headed home to eat shrimp parmigiana and Peggy’s Harvey Wallbanger cake. We went to bed to gear up for Day 2 of the Phil Hoffman tour. Stay tuned. I am sure you are trying to guess where else we went. Know that we aren’t even close to done, and we might never be close to done. You were everywhere.

We Went to Carvel

For our second day of the Phil tour, we drove to Mom’s old apartment building and visited the stop where your young love for each other grew. We drove by Manhattan college, where you were as dedicated as an alum as you were a student. And we drove by the animal hospital where Mom worked, but now it is a school or something.

Next, we drove to Carvel, where you worked the college and law school. Carvel is where you and Mom met. We would have gone inside, but it wasn’t open yet. I made Mom drive me to a different Carvel (that didn’t exist) and then yet another Carvel (that did exist) so I could get my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream.

We went to your middle school, your high school, and your town library. But my favorite spot was our old apartment building, where you grew up as a kid and where we later lived as a family. We would ride our bikes in that little courtyard out front. It looks exactly the same now as it did in 1987. The nostalgia seeped through my veins.

Lately, I’m craving these nostalgic moments. Sometimes, they feel like a warm hug. When everything feels like it changes on a dime, there’s comfort in seeing something steady. I believe that we all want to seek out new adventures while also having something we can count on.

Standing in the spot where a memory happened reinforces that memory and makes it stronger. It feels like recharging the memory so it can last another 10 years.

But if the place has changed too much or is gone completely, I worry the memory will start to fade. I hopefully have more decades of life in me, which means my memory batteries will drain. Luckily, you wrote them all down in the Hoffman Family Calendar. But seeing them live is still a great feeling.

I promise to keep visiting these places Dad so I feel fully charged on our happy memories together.

License Plate Game

Playing the license plate game on any road trip was quite the ordeal. Most families spot license plates and write them down in a notebook. Kids look out the window, searching for that mysterious plate. You see the nearby states first, but get excited when Washington, Missouri, or North Dakota pass you by. You hope for Hawaii. That’s the golden one. How did the car get here?!

But Dad, you were the organized type. Why would we write down the license plates when we could simply have a pre-printed list of all 50 states and just cross them off when spotted? Genius! I am sure they have apps for this kind of thing now, but in 1991, pre-printing your list on Microsoft word was pretty advanced. I sometimes think that my love for efficient processes started with this method of tracking license plates. You saw a game and you found a way to make it easier and make it better.

Counting license plates was only part of the fun. We had several other bets for these car rides. We had to guess what type of artist was playing when we pulled into our destination. Choices were man, woman, ensemble, or show.

We also had to guess the time we would arrive, the temperature upon arrival, the last digit on the trip meter, the last digit on the odometer, and the number of roadkill. Dad, you might be wondering how I remembered all of the categories! I didn’t. I found one of the print outs in my scrapbook. Apparently each category was worth 5 points. And that summer, I was the winner.

Dad, I went to Charleston with Josh, Adela, Sung, and Uni back in November. We drove down. Can you believe it? It was a 13-hour trip and we stayed for 2 weeks. It was the safest way to get there since flying is still scary these days. Plus, we brought things like kettlebells and hand mixers, so a car was perfect. At one of the first rest stops, we saw a Huddle House. And I kept my composure, but I should have just let it all out and sobbed. You remember the time we had dinner there when I went to meet your Dad for the first time when I was 12? We had steak for $9.99. It wasn’t good, but I’ll never forget it. That trip we took together, just the 2 of us, has so many of my fondest memories of you. We had so many laughs and so many special moments, just us.

When I saw the Huddle House, I played out the scene as if you were alive. I would have texted you a picture of it. Or, I would have gone inside to see if I could buy some non food item and I would give it to you as a gift. I so cherish the moments we shared just the two of us, but I feel the burden of holding those memories alone. And if I forget them, who will remind me? That’s why I tell so many stories about you, so that other people know too.

So Dad, I didn’t count the roadkill down to Charleston. But we did see a decent amount. And every time I see a dead animal on the road, I say in my head “road kill!” in this particular sing-songy voice that we said it in. If seeing a dead raccoon on the side of the road makes me miss you, you can only imagine how much I miss you every day.

We Cleaned Out Your Office

Mom and I went to your office in December. Nobody asked us to clean out your office. The pandemic is still happening and your colleagues make rare appearances at 7 Times Square South. I wonder if you would have gone to the office. Your leg was really hurting in early 2020 so you may have spared yourself the commute, especially without a Ranger game or Broadway show to cap off the day. But you might have enjoyed the peace and quiet of your beautiful corner office.

Heck, if you were alive, I would go to your office if they let me! We would work independently all morning. I would grab lunch and we would eat at your desk, me sitting across from you. You grabbing the manila folders that you used as our placemats always. We would talk about our projects. You would offer me a diet coke. I would accept.

The primary reason we went to your office was to collect your things and to cross another post death to-do off the list. As I’ve said before Phil, you led a big life so you left quite a bit behind. There are still so many open threads to close. But going to your office was one that I felt would give me an opportunity to connect with you.

I don’t know what I thought I would find in your office. Maybe I would find something you left behind, that I could cling to. Maybe I would find a note you wrote. Maybe I would find a secret.

Well, Phil, we didn’t find a whole lot. There was still milk in your fridge. GROSS. We found a half a bag of Cheerios. They were stale. We found so many pens, markers, post-its and umbrellas. I took all of them. And of course, we found your books, your cds, your pictures, your trophies and your plaques. But we knew all of that was there.

I thought I would find comfort in your things. I thought I would feel crippling sadness to be in your office without you. But your friend Dyan popped by and we had so much fun shooting the shit.

So I wasn’t sad to see your stuff Dad. And I wasn’t sad you weren’t there, because I didn’t expect you to be there. I was sad when we took the elevator down to leave because I would never go visit you at your office ever again. I’ve visited you at your offices so much since I was a kid. I sold girl scout cookies door to door. I worked out of a conference room one summer. I hosted wine tastings for your colleagues. I had so many opportunities to get to be part of your work life.

In many ways, that part of your life didn’t end when you died. Your legacy will live on at your firm. Your role as historian and party planner will be brought into the future. Your ideas will come through other people. I know your presence is still very much there. I just have no reason to go visit that presence at 7 Times Square.

Now, I sit at my home desk, with my P.R. Hoffman name plate that I swapped from your desk. I write my book using one of your blue markers. I mark up my cookbook with your post-its. And I think of you. But I’ll miss visiting you at work. Every time I walk or bike by your office, I wave and scream HI DAD! You’ll always be there in my mind.

2021 is here

2021 is here. The year 2020 is behind us, but it doesn’t feel that way. So much permanent change happened in 2020 that will carry forward for years to come. I lost you in 2020 and you’ll remain gone for all of the years to come. Of course, I’ll feel your presence. I’ll wonder what you would say or do in any given situation. I’ll see those peanut butter cheddar crackers you loved and will always want to buy them for you. I’ll cling to any thought of you, but it won’t bring you back. I also got married in 2020, with the goal being a permanent change in marital status. And I became a homeowner in 2020. I won’t live in this apartment forever, but I am officially someone who has owned a home.

Putting myself aside for a second, the world experienced permanent change too. We won’t all work from home forever. We won’t wear masks forever. And we won’t close all sidewalks for outdoor dining forever. But we will continue to scan menus with a QR code. We will be more conscious about germs and washing hands. We will have more options for how and where to conduct business. And we’ll be a little more scared to breath around others we don’t know or trust.

Everyone wants to put 2020 in the past. I understand that feeling. But we can’t take 2020 out with the trash. For all of the good, the very bad, and the super ugly, 2020 changed our world in too many permanent ways to just discard it like an old t-shirt. Plus, you would never discard an old t-shirt, Dad.

Learning to truly exist without you in a post pandemic world hasn’t even started yet. Figuring out how to work, travel and socialize is still in flux. What businesses remain on the other side of this is unknown. As awful as living in the pandemic is, it’s a limbo universe where nothing feels quite real. Some days just feel like a bad dream, but a dream nonetheless, one I will wake up from in a sweat, no different than I was when I went to sleep.

I keep thinking that 2021 will be easier than 2020. It has to be, right? You and 300,000 other Americans died in 2021. We went through and are still going through a pandemic. But we have vaccines. We are learning from mistakes. We have a new President. So sure, maybe 2021 will be better, but will it be easier?

A wise man (ok, a spin instructor), said “it doesn’t get easier - you just get stronger.” Losing you has not gotten any easier. But I’ve gotten stronger, implementing more strategies to cope and to heal. I’ll find strength in teas, sitting tall, being brave, lifting weights, and laughing. I know I’ll have a lot of great moments in my life, but every Hoffman Family Calendar entry with the year 2021 or later is one that won’t have your name listed, which will break my heart a million times over.

I want to wrap this letter up with a bow, but I’ll leave the bow off today. Not every sad thought needs a positive side. Not every half empty glass needs a half full perspective. Learning to sit with discomfort is hard, but it is part of healing and is often times the best solace you can give yourself or others.

Counting the roadkill

Playing the license plate game on any road trip was quite the ordeal. Most families spot license plates and write them down in a notebook. Kids look out the window, searching for that mysterious plate. You see the nearby states first, but get excited when Washington, Missouri, or North Dakota pass you by. You hope for Hawaii. That’s the golden one. How did the car get here?!

But Dad, you were the organized type. Why would we write down the license plates when we could simply have a pre-printed list of all 50 states and just cross them off when spotted? Genius! I am sure they have apps for this kind of thing now, but in 1991, pre-printing your list on Microsoft word was pretty advanced. I sometimes think that my love for efficient processes started with this method of tracking license plates. You saw a game and you found a way to make it easier and make it better.

Counting license plates was only part of the fun. We had several other bets for these car rides. We had to guess what type of artist was playing when we pulled into our destination. Choices were man, woman, ensemble, or show.

We also had to guess the time we would arrive, the temperature upon arrival, the last digit on the trip meter, the last digit on the odometer, and the number of roadkill. Dad, you might be wondering how I remembered all of the categories! I didn’t. I found one of the print outs in my scrapbook. Apparently each category was worth 5 points. And that summer, I was the winner.

Dad, I went to Charleston with Josh, Adela, Sung, and Uni back in November. We drove down. Can you believe it? It was a 13-hour trip and we stayed for 2 weeks. It was the safest way to get there since flying is still scary these days. Plus, we brought things like kettlebells and hand mixers, so a car was perfect. At one of the first rest stops, we saw a Huddle House. And I kept my composure, but I should have just let it all out and sobbed. You remember the time we had dinner there when I went to meet your Dad for the first time when I was 12? We had steak for $9.99. It wasn’t good, but I’ll never forget it. That trip we took together, just the 2 of us, has so many of my fondest memories of you. We had so many laughs and so many special moments, just us.

When I saw the Huddle House, I played out the scene as if you were alive. I would have texted you a picture of it. Or, I would have gone inside to see if I could buy some non food item and I would give it to you as a gift. I so cherish the moments we shared just the two of us, but I feel the burden of holding those memories alone. And if I forget them, who will remind me? That’s why I tell so many stories about you, so that other people know too.

So Dad, I didn’t count the roadkill down to Charleston. But we did see a decent amount. And every time I see a dead animal on the road, I say in my head “road kill!” in this particular sing-songy voice that we said it in. If seeing a dead raccoon on the side of the road makes me miss you, you can only imagine how much I miss you every day.

We worked 1 block apart

For 5 ½ years, you worked 1 block away from me. I should say that I worked 1 block away from you, since you were there first. Right on 41st and Broadway, it was just mere steps to me on 41st and 6th. When I got a new job, I only moved 7 blocks down. And my latest job was only 14 blocks down. We had 8 years of breathing the same air. 

Yet, our own worlds were happening that made it seem like we were miles apart. You asked me what I thought of the new H&M in Times Square and were astonished that I didn’t know about it. But my subway let out on 6th so I never walked in that direction. You would tell me to watch an air show over the Hudson, but unlike you, I did not have a corner office with views of the Hudson. Well, to be fair, my office did overlook Bryant Park so no complaints. And although we were so close, I only randomly bumped into you twice.

Every 2 months or so though, we met for lunch. Sometimes, you wanted me to take you out for Chinese, since that was a treat. Other times, I wanted you to take me somewhere for an overpriced fancy salad. These lunches were an hour max, sometimes even shorter. When we would get in and out in 45 minutes, we were so excited. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to see each other. We knew we were lucky that we could see each other for a quick lunch. Think of how many more people you would be willing to catch-up if you knew it was just 45 minutes a block away from your office!

Occasionally, we dropped by each other’s offices. I went to your office one morning to drop off all of Sung’s old CDs for you, which is an extraordinary memory for me. Another day, my company accidentally received 150 grilled cheese sandwiches a day earlier than we needed them so I invited you to my office to help us eat them. You sat at a table with 8 or 9 of my coworkers like you were one of us. You always fit in. Another time, you came to my office for a beer before heading out to a show with Mom. I wasn’t even going to the show. We just pre-gamed our nights together.

Although I saw you a lot in 2019, we didn’t have one of our lunches. Our last lunch was in September, 2018. Our work schedules were busy. We saw each other for shows and games. Sometimes, I knew you and Mom were grabbing dinner somewhere before a show and I would just show up and sit with you for a while. It’s not like we didn’t see each other. But of course it is easy to look back and wonder how we didn’t make more time for those lunches. We didn't know our time was limited though. Who cares if we were light on lunch in 2019? We thought we had 2020, 2021, 2029. We had a lifetime of lunches ahead of us.

I would do anything to show up late to a meeting because we were having lunch. Instead, you are dead and I eat lunch at my home office desk which is next to my bed. Every time I walk by La Pecora Bianca, the site of our last lunch, I remember when you made me guess the waiter’s name, and when I shouted it out, the waiter turned abruptly and thought I was shouting at him. When I sat down for lunch at the rooftop at Eataly on my wedding day, I remembered the time you took me there for my birthday and I had a lunch beer in the middle of the work day. And when I stroll past Bryant Park Grill, I remember our outdoor lunch where I waved to co-workers walking by who later questioned who my mysterious lunch date was that day.

Dad, we worked 1 block from each other. Just one block. How lucky were we? And now, you are so many blocks away. Everything feels so far away. The hardest part about having so many amazing memories with you is that I knew we would have so many more. I would trade so many things for more lunches with you. 

Mighty Ducks 3

I remember the day we went to see Mighty Ducks 3 like it was yesterday. MD3 doesn’t seem like a memorable movie to many but you got us tickets to see it in previews in Manhattan. At the age of 11, I was seeing a movie preview of an Emilio Estevez and Joshua Jackson flick. That was enough cool points to hold me for a while. 

After the movie, which was not nearly as good as D2, you and Mom spontaneously decided that we should get tickets to a show. We headed over to TKTS and purchased tickets to The Cocoanuts. We grabbed a bite to eat and headed to this totally fun show. As natural planners, this day of spontaneous fun felt wild and crazy. I loved it.

Later in life, you and Mom started planning Saturdays and Sundays in the city with 1 Ranger game and 1 Broadway show, which you called double headers. Everybody was so impressed with your stamina and energy for these jam packed days of fun. 

These days of back to back fun are the days that create memories for the ages. Living in the moment and seizing an opportunity to keep having a good time is the best reward and relief for the people who usually plan everything out. It reminds me to not always focus on where I need to be next and instead open my eyes to the possibility that something fun, exciting, and unknown may be around the corner.

One of the harder parts of losing you is swimming in this ocean of amazing memories. You weren’t the Dad who came home from work, cracked a beer and sat in a recliner. You weren’t the husband who anchored on a weekly date night at a local restaurant. You saw shows and games and movies. You planned parties, attended parties and hosted parties. You kept score at Little League games, filmed school projects and went to our concerts. So now that you are gone, I don’t just see you in the house with a beer. I see you everywhere because you loved to be everywhere.

I think they say that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I’ll say for you that it is better to have lived and lost than to never have lived at all. You were so good at living Dad. That’s why it is so unbelievable that you are not living anymore.