Tears caught me off guard as I drove home from a weekend visit with my mom. I was passing Carmax where I’d met her a few days before. We’d agreed to meet there so she could drive Dad‘s van there and sell it before the insurance and registration were due. I’d pick her up and take her back home to spend a couple of days.

“The van is not Dad,” I reassured her many times. I know it’s difficult to detach emotions from the things that belong to people we love who have died. I experienced it with Ken‘s things more times than I can remember. In the early years after his death, bursts of productivity and decluttering resulted in inevitable emotional hangovers of guilt and sadness. The very idea that one day something is necessary or essential and the next useless, valueless is jarring. It stings at the heart of something so precious.

I attended mass with my mom and one of my sisters that weekend. Friends of my mother had requested the mass be given in honor of Dad. I’m not religious, but I knew it would be meaningful to go–not just for Mom. But also for me. I like showing up. I like being the guy to whom strangers say “I know who you are. You’re the spitting image of your father.” I like when I told my mother’s friend after the mass, “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you,” and she sweetly replied with the same exact phrase.

It says something about our family–Dad’s family. And his legacy. And I’m endlessly proud of how we’ve handled ourselves, each other and our complex feelings since he died in August. He would be just as proud, I’m certain. I told my mother something I’ve gleaned from this experience–something not surprising, yet still very satisfying: none of us had to change who we are in order to help ourselves and each other cope with his loss. It’s just who we are as a family; loving, supportive, patient.

There are as many parallels between my father’s death and Ken’s death as there aren’t. But what I’ve learned is that lessons about death are really lessons about life. For me, that means gratitude: being happy with where I am and what I have–particularly my health–and not what I don’t have. It’s also about understanding the tiny moments–sometimes full of stillness and appreciation; sometimes filled with grief. It’s not the Thanksgivings, Christmases or birthdays–the days where solidarity comes so easily. Where we can stand together and remember. It’s the tiny “in between” moments when you’re not thinking–about anything–and go to look for someone or pick up the phone to call someone who is no longer there. It’s after the initial moments of excitement or fear when you realize the person you want most to know about it–to protect you, help you, comfort you, isn’t there–in the way that you’re used to. In the way you want. It’s knowing that my dad’s van was not my dad, but upon driving past the place where it had been left, I was consumed with a longing for him and of a feeling it was wrong; that his car should be parked at home in the garage. And he should be sitting in his leather recliner, watching television with my mother.

Experience has taught me not to fight “grief bursts” like this. Letting it wash over me without resistance is the easiest way to get through it. It’s like offering a kind of implicit acknowledgment without having to say or do anything. It’s a level of acceptance–much-needed and important. I’m certain it’s part of the process–for me at least–that will lead me to be at peace with this great loss.

Experience has also taught me that love is eternal. It’s more powerful than death–it supersedes it. And my family will continue on our journey of acceptance, loving Dad without end.