Dear Luki,

I know that I’m not setting the best example by what I’m about to confess, but here it goes anyway: I really don’t like getting up to go to work in the morning. I could say that it’s because I can’t stand to leave you every day, but that would be a lie. I’ve never liked it. Not even before you were born. I’d rather sleep, or read a book, or lounge around in my pajamas all day than sit behind a desk. Doing nothing is one of my favorite hobbies.

I assure you that I did not inherit that laziness from your grandpa. He kept busy all the time, if not with work, with projects around the house or favors for friends and family. And even though he liked relaxing and getting away, his body just wasn’t wired for leisure.

Without fail, he would get sick on the first few days of every vacation. It was never anything specific, just a general, unexplained discomfort. Your grandma would always say that it was just his body reacting to the lack of work. I think she was right. One time, when they went on a cruise, he woke up startled and confused in the middle of the night because he’d been dreaming that he was hanging up drywall throughout the ship’s cabins.

And it wasn’t just his total willingness to always take on tasks and projects, it was his commitment to doing them right. Whatever they were. I can’t tell you how many times I grew frustrated with him because he turned what I considered a simple chore — like hanging up a painting, for example — into a huge ordeal. He would poke around the walls looking for the wooden beams that provided the most support, measure to confirm it was absolutely centered, bring out his level to verify that it was straight, and dig around for the perfect screws to hold the frame. It took a lot longer than eyeballing it, but, once he placed it on the wall, it was always right on the first try.

The day of his accident he wasn’t supposed to be on that ladder. He’d gone to the work site to clean up. His company had finished all the work they were hired to do. And then, he noticed a few tiny holes in the ceiling, an imperfection left behind by another contractor. So he climbed up the ladder to fix it. To make it perfect. To do things right, as always.

It’s been really hard for me to accept that something so trivial has altered our lives in such a heartbreaking way. And as much as I try to not imagine the scene of his accident, I can’t keep my mind from going there almost every day. I hate those damn ceiling holes, and the contractor who left them there. I hate that work site, and that stupid ladder. I hate that whole damn day.

But I can’t get mad at your grandpa for trying to finish his job, for wanting to turn in perfect work. Because I’d rather miss a father who gave it his best all the time and in every aspect of his life, than still have one who was just second-rate.

Love,

Mom