“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m holding space for you.”

“I’m praying for you.”

“I'm sending you thoughts and prayers.”

After you hear so many sympathetic platitudes your reaction almost becomes robotic.

“How are you doing?” is the worst of them all, mostly because people are only asking because they feel they have some moral obligation to and they ask to make themselves feel better. They really don’t want you to answer honestly. So, “I’m doing okay,” is your best response so they can nod and curl their lips and wrinkle their foreheads in a sad sort of way before moving to the buffet line in the church’s basement.

No one says anything about the eulogy, except my parents indirectly when they ask me if they can take my daughter for a few weeks to give me space. “Not right now,” I tell them.

I wish I could tell people in a nice way to fuck off. I don’t feel that they are really here for Eleanor or for me, but to make themselves feel better about doing their part. After this they’ll go home and go back to their lives and everything will be back to normal for them.

I need to find our new normal. I need routines established so that there’s balance and distractions from everything else that will remain unbalanced for a little bit longer. My boss won’t let me back in the office, but after significant begging, has allowed me to take on a project with no client contact that I can work on from home. My daughter will be back in kindergarten Monday and there’s already a semblance of a schedule in my head.

Wake up at six-thirty.

I’ll take a quick shower and get dressed.

Then, I’ll go to Eleanor’s room and wake her up.

She’ll get dressed, brush her teeth, and then come downstairs to eat breakfast while I pack lunch.

Veronica would always question this habit of brushing teeth before breakfast, but I always insisted that it’s the most effective way of getting ready in the morning. All your bathroom tasks are done so you don’t have to come back upstairs for any activities. You can sit, have breakfast, and be all ready to go without any wasted time or energy.

Time and efficiency within the boundaries of time was always something I was really good at. I could analyze our activities for the day and understand immediately the best path to take for everyone’s best interests. Whether it was a day-trip to go hiking in the mountains or something as simple as making toast, I could plan out the most efficient way to use our time.

When interviewing potential candidates, for the ones I progressed through the interview process, I always gave them what I called the “Toast Test.” I asked for them to detail out a plan for how they would make toast. It was a relatively simple task with no rules and it allowed me to see how their minds worked through a task and analyzed it.

Because there is a way to make toast that is really efficient.

Bread goes in the toaster, then you get out the butter, plate and knife. When the toast pops up, you butter it, the knife goes in the sink, butter goes in the fridge and by then your toast is at the perfect temperature for eating. I never understood why people got the butter out of the fridge as their first action. At the point the toast is in the toaster, you have no other tasks to accomplish and you’re just waiting.

Veronica never appreciated my sense of timing or efficiency. She was more “go with the flow” and it drove me crazy. Things needed to be planned out to avoid chaos. When I let things flow, things always ended poorly, at least in my opinion: meals were missed or late; Eleanor would go to be late and be awake at her usual time, causing at least a full day of whining and tears; or I would be caught in my head over-analyzing everything and be grumpy.

I look up, pulling myself away from my thoughts.

People are leaving. I get up, smoothing out my dress pants and suit jacket, pick up Eleanor and walk to the doors.

There’s handshakes, hugs and head nods.

My parents walk us to our car and help me buckle Eleanor in.

“Let us know if you need anything,” my mom tells me.

I need my wife back.

I don’t say it, but I feel it; deeper than anything else that day.

I close my door and wave goodbye to my parents. I can see that my mother has started to cry again as they turn to walk over to their car.

“Can we go to the park?” my daughter asks.

“Sure,” I say.

There’s a park close to our house that she loves. Even though she’s small for her age, the big kid playground is the right size and she loves it. As soon as we reach the edge of the playground she takes off, mixing in with the half dozen other kids. It’s busier than usual, most likely due to the better than usual weather. A couple kids are throwing the football back and forth on a peewee league field. Behind us it looks like little league practice has started for tee-ball.

I wander the periphery of the playground watching my daughter’s circuit up the stairs, up the ladder, down the slide, and then racing back to the beginning. Another dad is standing on the side, arms crossed:the watchful guardian.

I know she’s five, but as I’m watching her race around I’m amazed by how much of my wife is displayed in her personality. Somehow, and I mean this in a nice way, she got all of my wife’s good qualities without the negative side effects. Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. She demands her independence and exerts her fierce will over everyone, but there are times like last night where she’s vulnerable and needs the right kind of companionship. She has an “I can do anything” attitude but sometimes is too confident and trips over her own feet. She’s a big believer in “my body, my rules” but doesn’t always apply those rules in the right circumstances. It’s okay to skip an occasional bath time, but it’s not okay to substitute a winter beanie for her bike helmet.

“Daddy, push me!” Eleanor yells from across the playground.

Somehow I’ve lost myself in my thoughts. I follow the voice and find her sitting in a swing across the playground. How did she get there? It’s one of those toddler swings; the ones made out of a circle of rubber with four leg holes for your mutant children. It’s too small for her now, but she’s sitting there, legs dangling, smiling a big smile.There’s no way she could have climbed in without help, but I have no recollection of doing so. I look around and the other dad is still standing there, arms folded, not paying attention to my confusion or the odd spectral my daughter is making of herself in that tiny swing.

“Hey baby,” I say. “Did I forget to push you?”

She laughs, so I start pushing her. She asks for faster, stronger, “so-so high” so I oblige. I push her high enough that the seat does a little jerk at the top and she laughs. She’s fearless.

“You know I love you, right?” I whisper as I swing her. “I’ll be here for you. If you ever want to talk just tell me.” I know she wouldn’t understand, but I want to voice it anyways in case I forget to when she really needs it.

She laughs again and then tells me to stop. I slow her down and lift her out, giving her a playful tug on her ponytail, and she’s off, racing across the playground. I watch her run off wondering at what point she’ll trip, fall, and scrape up her hands and knees. But she doesn’t. She makes it to the structure’s steps and begins her circuit again.

“Swing me, Daddy. Swing me.”

I feel a small pull on my suit jacket and look down and it’s her again sitting in a swing that’s more appropriate for her age and size. I look back towards the playground structure and then back down at her. I just saw her over there, running around.

My mind is playing tricks on me.

Lifting her into the swing I begin to push her and she asks for faster, stronger, “so-so high” and I oblige.