Dear Bear,

"How I wish, how I wish you were here."

You know the words to the Pink Floyd song.

Today would have been your 58th birthday.

And as I sit here this morning, a week after one of the most joyful weekends I have experienced in a long time, I find myself thinking less about what happened and more about everything you should have been here to see.

Last week, Bear, our 1-month-old granddaughter, Rynn, made her first trip to the beach. And all I could think was how much you would have loved holding her in the sand, smiling that smile I miss seeing every single day.

You should have been here.

For the first time, all four grandchildren were together. Right here in Gulf Shores, where we had planned to be in our retirement years, you and me.

Under one roof in our new condo, the first place I've ever lived that you never saw. That realization hit me this week while sitting in a room still filled with boxes.

You never saw this place. You'll never decorate it, sit quietly in it or watch the grandchildren filling every room the way they did this week. But every square inch still carries your presence.

Nearly 42 years together will do that. The pictures tell the story when I need to be reminded.

Inside the condo last weekend, the three oldest had a blast playing together — you can imagine. There was time at the pool with all of them. Meals together. Building forts.

You should have been here.

And for that one day at the beach, for a little while, all four of them were there — Rhys, Ann Evelyn, Wallace and Rynn. Playing in the sand, splashing in the waves — while 1-month-old Rynn slept comfortably in the shade with a fan keeping her cool.

You should have been here.

Ann Evelyn and Wallace had to go home with their parents once the weekend was over. But Rhys and Rynn got to stay a few more days with me.

You and I always wanted to take the grandkids to the Alabama Gulf Coast Zoo. I was able to take Ann Evelyn and Wallace in September. Last week, I finally took Rhys. I rented a scooter so I could get around with him. He enjoyed every minute — the baboon was his favorite. And the lion. And the bear. Plus the giraffe. And naturally, the snacks.

You should have been here.

He said afterward, "Thank you for taking me, Pop Pop."

Later in the week came a trip to Pensacola to watch the Blue Angels practice. We found a parking spot to keep Rynn cool with her mom as the six Blue Angels roared above.

You should have been here.

They stayed a few more days until they had to return to North Alabama.

Everyone is gone now.

I'm learning grief changes shape over time. It isn't always the big moments that hurt most. It can arrive quietly… after the beautiful moments are over. Like when I'm in the grocery store and realize I'm shopping just for one.

So this morning, for publication on your birthday — July 10 — I write this simply as a letter to you.

I can smile a bit when I think about July 10 — we celebrated 41 of them together. Always with a cake. Always with a picture of the cake. It was just one of those things you asked to do every year, one of those things I miss. There were very few years we failed to get that picture, if any.

And with my birthday falling 10 days later, it was always a special time to celebrate. Beach trips. Vacations. Family. And for those 10 days in between, we'd joke you were just a couple years younger than me.

With the kids and grands gone, it's just me. Oh, there are still boxes to be unpacked, things to put away.

But I'm going to take it easy today, spend it thinking about you, those birthdays together.

I'll probably wind up at the beach at some point — likely for sunrise or sunset. I'll meet you there.

Then I'll come back here, to the first home I have ever lived in without shared memories of us inside its walls. I'll continue editing the draft of "Caledonia and Me," my book about one life influencing another, then another, then another.

My dad is the engine. I'm the narrator.

But Bear… you have always been the heart.

And with music always playing, I'll think about the 3 Doors Down song, "Here Without You."

"And now I'm here without you, baby… but you're still on my lonely mind."

Here Without You.

I've seen it in other places, and a couple of friends have described grief as love with no place to go.

So today, I'll spend time thinking about 41 birthdays together. The memories. The pictures. The life we built.

And I'll keep doing what this past year has taught me to do. Learning how to carry love forward, even into unfamiliar places.

Happy birthday, Bear.

I miss you.

Love,

Wayne

Wayne Smith is a freelance writer and has worked as a writer and editor at newspapers across Alabama, Florida and South Carolina. His weekly column focuses on navigating Gulf Shores alone after losing his wife to cancer, and the places he discovers and the people he meets. Read his previous columns on Gulf Coast Media's website. Contact him at wwsmith6410@gmail.com or visit doublewwordsmith.com.