Brian Thomas Bilbo

unexpectedly. His sudden departure has left holes in our hearts that even time will not fill. I refuse to summarize these memories in something as final as an obituary.

There is no ending to the love we felt. No words that could ever do justice to the kindness he embodied. And so I am writing this: a love letter to our dad.

He was born on May 10th, 1956 to Thomas J. Bilbo, Sr. and Joanne (Domigan) Bilbo. He was a cherished brother. A proud Marine. A man that lived for social gatherings.

Family reunions, parties, he was known everywhere he went. He could, and he would, talk to anyone. There wasn't a person below him. A friendly smile and an absolute need to lighten room with his jokes. And that he did. When I think about my dad I think of laughter. A laugh that could make you laugh and a delivery that we could never do justice in the re-telling of his many jokes. Believe me, I have tried.

A graduate of Scituate High School. A tiny coastal fishing town that provided the most dreamy backdrop to meeting the love of his life, Linda. Often described

to us as her high school sweetheart, Brian was her soulmate. Somewhere in their house there is a scrap book with a single straw kept from their first date. The kind of love you save straws over.

That was our parents.

Always out working in the yard. Planting endless flowers, some of the most beautiful gardens you could ever imagine. I can picture him standing by the road striking up conversations with anyone that happened to take a spring afternoon

stroll. Peonies. Tomatoes. Shoving tomatoes in all the mailboxes. And when you asked him at 68 years old why he worked so hard in the yard (even exhausted).

His answer: because she loves it.

Perhaps his greatest joy in life were his children. The absolute proudest father to Ashley Alexandra Bilbo and Brian Thomas Bilbo II. In typical dad fashion he would tell entire neighborhoods about us.There is not a single soul that knew him that did not know our names. One thing about our dad: he showed up. And it did not matter where. There was not a place he wouldn't drive to. Or a time of night he wouldn't brew a pot of coffee and jump in the car.

If his children were on the other side of the trip, he was on his way.

A quiet man when it came to expressions of his love for us. His love was steady, reliable,and present. From gymnastics competitions to coffee in Arizona. From flooded farmhouse basements to building new gardens.Treehouses in New Hampshire. Calls to Alaska. Drives to Maine. And most recently, renovating an entire cottage. He was a constant presence of love. One that can never be taken away from us. It has already left its mark.

This would not be a love letter without mentioning his grandson. Waylon Ray Babbin was the light of his life. A bond that can only be described as best friends. I could write endless pages on the love and lessons and laughter these two shared. Papa was more than a grandparent to Waylon. At six years old they had a whole collection of inside jokes, plans, and dreams. I cannot picture Waylon without papa right behind him. The morning after he passed away he built two snowmen in the yard. A sheet of ice placed between the two. "A bridge," he said.

A bridge we will continue to build forever.

We have been absolutely shattered by this loss and also so wrapped in love from you all. Each day we hear another story, see another picture, and we are reminded how loved he really was. A lover of music, festivals, and the beloved Strange Creek Campout. Sunsets at First Encounter Beach. Grower of the world's best tomatoes. Famous for the dashboard beat drop. A damn good guitar riff. The "wait listen to this part" of the song and turning up the volume. Windows down. Left arm out. Pearl Jam - Last Kiss. He lived a life larger than it was ever meant to be. The simple pleasures were the big ones. Just look at his favorite shirts. Collars worn to dust.

Everything he loved was loved fully. To the end.

Despite him telling us what he wanted his grave to say since we were small children (thanks for passing down the dark humor), he was not a man that could ever be contained or laid to rest quietly. It is for this reason that we are not having a

funeral but a celebration. For everyone he ever loved, for every life he touched. We are going to give Dad the 70th birthday he would have wanted. Further details of this celebration to follow in the spring. His ashes will be scattered in all the places

he loved. From beaches to summits and beyond. He will continue to be everywhere.

"As you pass me by, cast an eye, for as you are now, so once was I"

And so, in honor of our dad:

Show up for people.

Buy a stranger a coffee.

Befriend the people you normally wouldn't notice.

Hold the door.

Laugh.

Help as much as you can.

And love endlessly.

We will never forget you.