Dad was here.

I stood in the backyard and tapped on the bathroom window, a cup of quickly-cooling coffee in my hand. The sun was warm and comforting on my back.

My sister's face appeared in the window. I held up my coffee cup and said,"Just checking out the yard." She nodded at me. "Did you know he has hostas?" I shouted, my voice a little louder than necessary.

"Yes," she said.

"I want some."

"Okay." Her face disappeared back into the bathroom.

I turned around and looked back at the yard, and I realized I had just used the present tense in reference to our Dad.

He has hostas. Well, actually, he HAD hostas.

This is our fourth or fifth trip down to the house together, since Dad died in January. Last month, I privately noted that the timing was good, because the dawning of Spring eases the pain as we air out the house, clean out dusty crawlspaces, and pack garbage bags full of memories.

He HAD hostas.

The backyard is a collage of memories as I walk around it. There's the hill where we played Little House on the Prairie. There's the corner where Mom let me plant my own flower garden. There's the spot where we buried Ching. Oh yeah, the root that I always tripped over.

There's the cement block that used to hold the tether ball pole. I remember when Dad poured it -- I can still see where he helped us make imprints of our small hands.

Hey, the section of the neighbor's yard where they kept their big dog Eli. I bet the new occupants don't even know what that space used to be.

I walk around the yard, just like Dad used to do when he came home from work. Except I'm holding coffee instead of beer.

It's hard to imagine leaving it all behind, but it's so good to have. Dad never sold the house after we moved out and on our own. He always said, "This is your home. This is what you'll come back to." He was right.

I hope that when my daughter grows up, she feels the same way about her backyard. And she'll know that the hostas came from her Grandpa's yard.