'Do you miss them?'

I was sitting in my room at home with my grandson, Harrison, and showed him a picture of my father sitting on a shelf. I realized I had never introduced him to my father.

"This was my dad."

Harrison looked at the picture, then asked, "Did he die?"

Quite a question for a 4-year-old. Not, "Where does he live?" or "What is he doing?" but "Did he die?"

"Yes, he did."

Then I took down a picture of my mother and showed that to him.

"This was my mom."

Again, Harrison looked at the picture and repeated the same question: "Did she die?"

"Yes, she did."

At that, Harrison looked puzzled and seemed to be pondering exactly what to say next. He looked up at me and asked this:

 "Do you miss them?"

I was surprised he asked such a question. It had been nearly 10 years since my father died and nearly six years since my mom's death. No one in all that time had ever asked if I missed my parents. It wasn't a question I even asked of myself.

"Yes, I do miss them."

Harrison nodded. That was enough. He went back to the toys I keep for him and his brother to play with on their visits to Coeur d'Alene.

When they left, I sat and looked at those pictures of my mom and dad. I loved them. I wish they were still here. I counted on them to be here.

They were fun. No one liked a party more than my father. And my mom was generally, not always, joyful. Growing up, our home was full of friends and relatives constantly coming in and going out.

I regret that I wasn't with them when they passed. That haunts me, so I try not to think about it. We were living on Kauai at the times of their deaths. I recall chatting with my father on a Monday night and he seemed fine, chatty as ever. A few days later, I was told he was in the hospital. A few more days later, he died. Cancer had spread throughout his body and it wasn't detected until it was too late.

After my father's death, my mom missed him terribly and struggled to adjust to life without him. On my visits, she would sometimes be sitting in her chair and say, "Ray, come back to me. Come back to me."

Frustrated, I would tell her, "Mom, he's gone now. He can't come back."

She refused to hear me.

There were days she would rediscover her spirit. She would smile as I tried to get her to do exercises. 

"I can't do it!"

"You can do it!"

"I can't do it!"

Then, she would do it and we would laugh and celebrate with a red beer, which she loved, as we sat outside on the back deck and watched and listened to the birds.

But the bad days outnumbered the good and dementia creeped in. My brother arranged for her to be in an assisted living home, but she died about a month later. I believe her heart was broken. 

So, I occasionally look at those pictures of my parents and I remember how life once was. They were good to me and the rest of my brothers and sisters. Somehow, they raised seven kids without losing their sanity. 

Harrison, thanks for asking if I missed my parents. 

I do. 

And for that, I am glad.

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at bbuley@cdapress.com.