by Naomi Pescovitz
December 16, 2010
It's impossible for me to believe I'm standing here right now. You have been such a constant force in my life, in our family's life, in this community's life-- to have been taken from us is unfair to all of the people who didn't get to know you and love you and hug you and feel your warmth.
Mom said it best in the first few hours after we knew you were gone, "we've got a lot of growing up to do now," because you were the backbone of this family. But what's so funny about that-- is that you were such a kid.
We would go out to eat and every time, without fail, you would sit there trying to balance your fork and knife as we waited for our food. A stupid joke never ceased to impress us. It's true, you taught me how the solar system worked and what makes rain droplets form-- but more importantly, you taught me, while you can pick your friends, and you can also pick your nose, you can't pick your friends nose (though i always begged to differ).
You didn't have to say much, and you often didn't. We knew how much you loved us and we loved you back, too. You couldn't say no to a single request and lit up at the chance to bring happiness to our lives. On my birthday this past summer, you called the newsroom-- in the middle of a very busy 6 am hour of news-- to make sure they knew the most important news of the day, that it was your daughters 23rd birthday. Then, there were I think 20 pounds of popcorn delivered to KVOA studios in Tucson. You told me you wanted to get me a gift that not only I would love, but something I could share. It was so perfect and so you. And the newsroom ate and loved every piece with you in mind.
Your constant love followed me all the way to my first real job in Tucson. As the morning reporter for the NBC affiliate there, you would watch me from your computer on our live stream every morning -- even if I was doing a story on a stray ferret at the humane society. And after every live shot-- I would check my droid and there would be a little note from you with either a "perfect report" or "woops... you'll get it next time." I don't know how I'll have the confidence to get behind the camera again, without knowing you're watching from a computer somewhere-- I hope they make Ipads wherever you are.
Dad, we will miss you with every step, every smile. We'll miss you as we walk down the aisle, we'll miss watching you hold your grandchildren in your arms. We'll never know why you were taken so early, but we'll always know why you were put on this earth. You touched so many people in so many ways, and to me you were dad. I loved you for that most of all... and always, will.