Behind the Puddle

On death anniversaries, remembrance, and the different ways we hold the people and lives that came before.

October 15, 1977, is a date I have carried with me for almost forty-nine years. It is the day my dad died. I was seven years old, my sister was ten, almost eleven, and my mom wasn’t yet thirty-two. We were a young family whose lives were about to become very different from anything we had imagined.

Every year, as October 15 approaches, I find myself thinking about him a little more. Not necessarily with sadness, and not because I spend the rest of the year missing him in some overwhelming way. I think about the life he lived, the stories I know, and the many stories I will probably never hear. I also think about the family we were before his death and the family we eventually became.

This year, those thoughts have led me somewhere I hadn’t expected.

For the past five years, much of my work in end-of-life education and community engagement has involved listening to people talk about death, grief, remembrance, and the relationships that continue long after someone has died. One thing I have noticed is how differently people experience the anniversary of a loved one’s death. I have listened to stories of elaborate annual celebrations, quiet visits to cemeteries, family gatherings, and people who prefer to let the day pass without any particular acknowledgment.

Some people experience the anniversary with tremendous emotion, even decades after the death. Others remember the person with warmth but feel no particular attachment to the date itself. Some find comfort in gathering with others, while some prefer solitude. And there are people who discover that the day becomes more meaningful, or less meaningful, as the years pass.

None of those responses tells us how much the person was loved. I think we sometimes forget that.

A Date Is Not a Measurement of Love

We have become accustomed to recognizing certain dates as important. Birthdays, wedding anniversaries, holidays, and other milestones give us opportunities to gather, remember, and celebrate. When someone dies, the anniversary of their death may become another date on the calendar that carries particular meaning. But the meaning isn’t necessarily the same for everyone who knew them.

One person may spend weeks preparing for an annual memorial gathering. Another may light a candle, look through photographs, or prepare a favorite meal. Someone else may recognize the date privately without telling anyone, while another may find that a birthday or an ordinary family holiday holds far more meaning than the anniversary of the death. It can be easy to misunderstand those differences, particularly within families.

When one person consistently acknowledges an anniversary and another does not, there may be an unspoken temptation to interpret the difference as a reflection of their love or grief. We might wonder whether someone has forgotten, whether they have moved on, or whether the relationship meant as much to them as it did to us. But outward expressions of remembrance cannot reliably answer those questions.

We don’t all carry our relationships in the same way. And perhaps we shouldn’t expect to.

The Same Death, Different Losses

When my dad died, my mom lost her husband. My sister lost her father at an age when she had already developed memories and experiences that were different from mine. I lost my dad at seven, with only a child’s understanding of who he was and what his death would eventually mean. We lost the same person, but we did not experience the same loss.

My mom had memories of their marriage, the life they were building, and the future she might have expected them to share. My sister had her own relationship with him, shaped by almost eleven years of childhood. I had seven years of memories, some clear and some incomplete, and an understanding of my father that would continue developing through the stories other people shared.

Even within one family, grief doesn’t begin from the same place.

Over the years, I have come to appreciate hearing stories about my dad from people who knew him in ways I never had the opportunity to. I enjoy learning about the man he was before I was born, the friend someone remembers, or an ordinary experience that was meaningful enough to remain in another person’s memory. Those stories allow my understanding of him to grow beyond the photographs and childhood memories I have carried for so long. 

I don’t think about my dad every day. That may seem surprising given the work I do, but I don’t feel that remembering someone requires their absence to occupy my thoughts continually. His life and death are part of my history, and his influence exists within the person I became. I can appreciate that without spending every day revisiting the loss. 

But I have always remembered October 15. And until recently, I hadn’t given much thought to why.

The Family That Was

My parents were married on July 9, 1964. My dad died thirteen years later, and within the following year, my mom remarried. Our family continued, grew, and developed new relationships and experiences that became part of our lives.

I have often said that if my dad hadn’t died, our lives would have been different. I don’t know whether they would have been better or worse, and I don’t think anyone can honestly know that. There is an entire lifetime of possibilities attached to the circumstances and decisions that shape our lives. We only get to experience the path that actually unfolds.

But his death changed more than the number of people sitting around our table. It changed the family we were.

There was a family that existed before October 15, 1977, with its own memories, relationships, traditions, and sense of belonging. And there was the family that eventually developed afterward, with its own history and meaningful connections. Both are part of my life, but they are not the same experience.

I have begun to realize that when I acknowledge my dad’s death anniversary, I may also be acknowledging the family that existed before his death.

For years, I have reached out to my mom and sister on October 15. Sometimes it is a text, sometimes a telephone call, and sometimes a memory shared publicly. Neither of them necessarily observes the day as I do, but I know they appreciate the acknowledgment. I used to think those messages were primarily about remembering Dad.

Now I wonder whether I have also been reaching out to the two people who remember being part of that original family. Perhaps, in some small way, I have been saying that I remember us.

The Families We Lose Without Everyone Dying

We often think of grief as the experience of losing someone to death. But death can also change relationships, family structures, financial security, routines, traditions, and our understanding of where we belong. Those changes can become part of the loss, even when we don’t immediately recognize them as something we are grieving.

A surviving spouse may eventually remarry, creating new relationships and opportunities for happiness. Children may become part of blended families, develop connections with new siblings, and establish traditions that continue for decades. None of those experiences necessarily erases the family that existed before the death.

Yet the family that was can become less visible as the years pass. There may be fewer people who remember it firsthand. Stories may be repeated less often, photographs may be stored away, and newer generations may know the history only through names and dates. The years following a death can eventually outnumber the years a family spent together.

I wonder whether death anniversaries sometimes become a way of preserving those earlier chapters of our lives.

Not because we wish to return to them, or because we believe everything would have been better had the death never occurred. Perhaps we simply want to recognize that the people, relationships, and experiences that existed before the loss were real. They mattered then, and they continue to hold a place in the history of those who lived them.

There is a difference between wanting the past back and wanting the past to be remembered. I think that distinction matters.

The Relationships That Continue to Change

Another thing I’ve learned is that grief and remembrance do not necessarily remain the same throughout our lives.

A death anniversary may mean something very different to a young child than it does to that same person fifty years later. As we grow older, become parents or grandparents, form new relationships, and experience other losses, we may begin to understand earlier events through perspectives that weren’t available to us at the time.

Sometimes we recognize losses within a loss. We may begin to understand what a surviving parent experienced, or recognize how a sibling’s memories differ from our own. We might reconsider the circumstances surrounding a death or the family relationships that developed afterward. We may also discover that some of the sadness attached to an anniversary belongs to experiences that occurred long after the person died.

That doesn’t mean we have failed to move forward. It means we have continued living, learning, and developing a more complete understanding of our own lives.

I have spent most of my life recognizing October 15 as the day my dad died. This year, I am beginning to understand that the date also represents a transition between two different versions of my family. Both have shaped me, and both deserve to be acknowledged as part of my history.

That understanding doesn’t make me love anyone more or less. It simply gives me another way to understand why the date has remained meaningful.

When Remembrance Becomes a Responsibility

There is another question I have been considering, and I suspect it may be familiar to others who regularly organize family gatherings, remember important dates, or preserve family stories. At what point does a personal tradition become something we feel responsible for maintaining?

In many families, one person naturally becomes the person who remembers. They make the calls, organize the gatherings, preserve photographs, share stories, and remind others of important anniversaries. Sometimes that role is deeply meaningful, and sometimes it becomes an expectation that nobody has ever actually discussed.

I wonder whether the person doing the remembering occasionally feels that if they stop, something important might be lost. Maybe the family won’t gather. Maybe the stories won’t be told. Maybe the name won’t be spoken.

And perhaps, somewhere within those thoughts, there is a fear that the person who died, or the family that existed around them, will gradually become less important.

But preserving a memory and carrying responsibility for everyone else’s remembrance are not the same thing.

We can invite others to remember without requiring them to participate. We can acknowledge an anniversary without expecting a particular response. And we can allow our own traditions to change without interpreting that change as a betrayal of the person who died. 

I am beginning to consider whether I might observe October 15 differently this year. I haven’t decided.

I may reach out to my mom and sister as I always have, or I may spend the day remembering Dad privately. I may share a story, look through photographs, or simply recognize the date without doing anything in particular.

Whatever I choose, I don’t want the decision to become a measurement of anyone’s love, including my own.

Being Remembered for Having Lived

I have also been thinking about what I hope remembrance will look like when my own life eventually becomes part of someone else’s memories.

I don’t particularly need anyone to organize an annual gathering or acknowledge the date of my death. I don’t expect to occupy someone’s thoughts every day, and I certainly wouldn’t want remembrance to become an obligation they feel guilty about neglecting. But I do hope someone remembers that I lived.

I hope they remember stories, ordinary conversations, traditions, laughter, and the things that mattered to me. I hope something I said or did occasionally returns to them when they least expect it. And I hope the people whose lives have been connected to mine recognize that some part of our shared experiences remains with them. 

I think that is what I value most when someone tells me a story about my dad. They aren’t necessarily remembering the day he died. They are remembering something about his life that stayed with them. It might be an ordinary encounter or a small detail that would never appear in an obituary, but for a moment, I get to know another part of the person he was.

The same is true when I remember my sister Tracey, who lived only one day before either Barb or I was born.

Her life was brief, and I never knew her personally, but I know she existed. I know her name, I have seen the few photographs that remain, and I recognize her place within our family’s history. Her life does not become less meaningful because there are so few memories to share. 

Perhaps what we hope to preserve is not simply the memory of someone’s death. Perhaps it is the recognition that they were here. That they belonged. That their lives mattered, whether they lasted one day, forty-three years, or a century.

Letting the Date Mean What It Means

I don’t believe there is one right way to acknowledge a death anniversary. For some, it will always be a day of profound sadness. For others, it may be an opportunity for celebration, connection, storytelling, or quiet reflection. Some will gather every year, some will occasionally acknowledge the date, and others will find that the most meaningful memories arrive on days that have no particular significance on the calendar.

And those experiences may change. The person who once needed an annual gathering may eventually prefer solitude. Someone who rarely acknowledged the date may find it increasingly important as the years pass. A child who once understood the anniversary only as the day a parent died may grow into an adult who recognizes the many other changes that followed.

None of those experiences needs to be justified to someone else.

Perhaps the more meaningful question isn’t how someone chooses to acknowledge a death anniversary, but what the date represents to them.

Is it an opportunity to remember the person who died? Is it a connection to the family that existed before the loss? Is it a reminder of relationships, experiences, or opportunities that changed? Is it a day of gratitude, sadness, love, belonging, or some combination of emotions that doesn’t fit neatly into a single explanation? Or is it simply another day?

I think we can make room for all of those possibilities.

As October 15 approaches, I know I will remember my dad. I will remember that he was forty-three years old when he died, that I was seven, and that my mom and sister were navigating losses of their own. I will remember the family we were and recognize the many years of living that have followed.

I don’t know whether I will mark the anniversary as I have in previous years. 

But I do know that changing a tradition doesn’t change the history behind it. My dad lived. Our family existed. His death changed our lives, but it did not erase the years we shared or the place those experiences continue to hold within me.

And I think that is what I have been trying to understand. Maybe remembrance isn’t always about how long we grieve, how often we speak someone’s name, or how faithfully we observe a date on the calendar.

Maybe sometimes it is simply about recognizing that a life existed, a relationship mattered, and a part of our own story will always be connected to someone else’s.

We don’t have to remember in the same way to recognize that. And we don’t have to make our remembrance visible for it to be real.

Perhaps the most meaningful thing we can offer one another is the freedom to remember differently, without judgment, expectation, or the need to explain why.

Because a date on the calendar can mark the end of a life, but it cannot measure the love, history, or meaning that life leaves behind.