Paul’s Spirit

It was my first Saturday at the Pfister as the Narrator and I was nervous. When the parking lot was full, I almost drove away. Telling myself that I could come back another day. But instead, I found my way inside to the lobby bar where I first saw her— older, with the same white hair and a walker. I knew her. Deep down to my soul.

She was gone before I had a chance to say hello. So I took a walk to the Mason Street Grill and then made my way back to the lobby where she had been. But this time, it was Paul’s sister, Cathy, who caught my eye. She was there with his nieces and nephews. Nancy, his other sister. And the woman I had seen earlier, his mom.

Paul was one of those people who was everything. A best friend. A brother. Family. And they were everything to him.

He passed nine years ago on March 7th. He taught me how to ski. How to love it. How to balance on the edge. And let the water wash over me. His smile was bright, shining, and luminous. It is always there, in my heart. But it has been some time since I have seen it— smiling down at me from the sky. But on that Saturday, my first at the Pfister as the Narrator, he was there.

And now, as I once again find my footing. Between new and old. Now and then. And fear and joy. He is here with me. Reminding me. To just let the water wash over me.

At the Mason Street Grill with Paul’s mom and his sister, Cathy