This is a bit weird:

It’s been so many years since I heard your laugh, yet I still know exactly how it sounds. And your voice. I know your exact inflexions. They were so unique that I guess they are like your signature. It might also be that I used to call your mobile like some kind of otherworld stalker for a bit after you died. I liked listening to your voice mail message. Hey, I said it was a bit weird.

This is also a bit weird:

Maybe it’s because you died, and I’ve captured your words in amber, preserving them forever, or maybe it’s because you taught me so many cool things about raising kids, right when I was ready to listen, that I often hear your words. That happens less these days, because so much of your wisdom was about little dudes. Your kids were only young when you died, weren’t they? They seemed older, but they were tiny little wise souls. You taught them so much. And yet, after all this time, still you are present. Not only in the echo of Meil’s laugh or in the cheeky side-edge of a grin from Kam, but in the energy you brought to the world.

There was always something restless, something new to conquer, something to do, when you were in the room. And always something to laugh at. The way your laugh would burst out of your throat always made me light up. So many of the things you found funny were irreverent or inappropriate, but that just made your laugh even funnier. Bloody hell it was hard to work with you sometimes- I’d be trying to be all professional and composed and you’d be running a circus performance over in the corner, making everyone giggle and have MORE FUN. All caps.

This is not a bit weird:

That over the years I have added your slightly wrong, slightly naughty, slightly messy but absolutely more FUN ways to my life, my work and my parenting. I’ve added a pinch when Coco is being poked and prodded with stainless steel hurty-things, and I’ve added a dash when I have to hang on to the Jesus-Bar in the car when Liam is driving (Yes, he’s driving now- can you imagine? I want to remind you of when you came to his birthday when we had the farm animals and you were blind from the growth in your skull and had to be lead by Greg- I saw the way you clutched onto his arm- but I can’t even write it without tears. Remember your cowboy boots? I do. You stomped right ’til the end my friend. We all remember the way you never let death take you- you took it. And I will always add a big dollop of that gutsy sass to my days.)

This is a bit weird:

I wonder what you would think of the world now. Would you be sitting back and taking it, or would you be out there making a difference, making everyone look up, and see the big picture? I think I know the answer to that, and I promise that we are doing our best to honour you, and keep hold of the world as you would have liked to see it.

Remember near the end when you were seeing flashes of light and you thought that maybe your sight was coming back. I remember, and those flashes are the things that remind me that no matter what, there is always some light. Even if we have to make them up a little from a pathway in our brain.

You were always a bit weird, Rick, in the nicest of ways. And you shone your light bright so all the other weirdos could find you. I like your brand of weird.

Thanks for the light.

Happy Birthday Rick. Miss ya. Love ya.

…From The Ashers