A few days ago, on September 2nd, would have been your birthday. I hadn’t forgotten, and I never will. You would have turned 88. Two times the infinity symbol turned sideways—and perhaps that’s just the right way to describe how present you are in my life: infinite.
I think of you infinitely. I love you infinitely. I miss you infinitely, and infinitely often I find myself still needing you. Your advice, your words, your silence that could say so much—I would so much have loved to have them with me now. There are infinite questions I’d like to ask you. About life, about the choices I’m making now, about the path I’m on. Sometimes even about the little things I know you’d respond to with a wink and a wise answer. But the answers don’t come anymore. The conversation doesn’t happen. I only have them in my thoughts, as if you were sitting next to me, nodding in listening.
On your birthday, I was speechless. I wanted to say so much, but the emptiness made me silent. What’s the point? You don’t read it, you don’t hear it. And yet I know: somewhere, in a way I can’t explain, it resonates with you. Because you’re still there, in everything I do and everything I feel.
The steps I take
In the steps I’m taking now in my life, I feel your presence. With every choice, with every path I take, you walk with me. It feels like I still carry a part of your strength within me. As if you sometimes gently nudge me, or whisper to me to be patient. I am infinitely grateful for the time you were in my life, however finite it may have been. That time was loving, warm, and wise. You laid a foundation that continues to shape who I am and how I approach life.
But at the same time, the sense of loss still ache. The realization that that finite time was never enough. That there will always be moments when I long for your words, your look, your approving smile.
The loss my children feel
And then there are my children. Your grandchildren. Their loss is perhaps even greater than mine, though they express it differently. They no longer have memories to recall the way I can, or just a view of their early years in life. To them, you are primarily a story, a photo, an echo of something that should have been. They needed you so much—a grandpa who would teach them to ride their bikes, who would be mischievous with them, who would tell stories about the past. A grandpa who would teach them that infinite love also lies in the little things.
And then grandma… already gone two years earlier, also far too soon. The double loss of both grandpa and grandma weighs heavily. Sometimes I see it in their eyes, in the silent questions they don’t always ask. Sometimes I hear it in their comments—why they no longer have grandparents to visit, why others do. It’s an endless void I can’t fill for them, no matter how much I’d like to.
I try to pass on your stories. I tell them who you were, what you said, how you laughed, how you looked. I let them feel that there’s an infinite line running from you to them, even though they never truly knew each other the way I wanted them to. And yet I know: they’re not just missing an image or a story; they’re missing the real touch, the warm presence. It’s a loss that can’t be healed, an infinite wound that becomes part of who they are.
Infinite Love
And yet, despite the loss, love prevails. It’s greater than the pain, greater than the emptiness. You were infinitely loving in your life, and infinitely loving, you remain present, even beyond the boundaries of time. I feel that, every single day. And that’s what I want my children to feel: that love never ends, that your presence hasn’t disappeared, but has taken on a different form. I am infinitely proud of you, of who you were, of what you gave me. And I hope I can pass on some of that same infinite love and wisdom. To my children, to the people I meet, to the world in which I continue to live. Because although I miss you, and although the emptiness sometimes seems infinite, I know you are still there. In my heart. In their hearts. In every step I take.
