It has been two Fathers’ Days since my father died, and this year waves of grief do not crash through me. As time erodes the mountains into softer, less jagged hills, so does time turn seas of sadness into softer swells. Now, I find I miss my father in the small spaces of living, when his memory comes creeping in unexpected during everyday moments: washing the dishes, the way the clouds layer in the sky before dark, the crimson of my currants. These small pricks of memory, of sensing him, sometimes make me tear up but more often, they make me smile, feel gratitude for having him in my life at all. I take each memory as it comes and stack it carefully on top of the last, a cairn, my monument.