There are dates that don’t pass quietly. They return each year with weight—carrying memory, love, and a kind of ache that never really leaves. My dad’s birthday is one of those days.
In 2013, Lee and I chose not to spend it in silence or avoidance. Instead, we drove to Sunday River Ski Resort in Newry, Maine—a place filled with crisp mountain air, wide open space, and just enough stillness to hear your own thoughts. It wasn’t about skiing or doing anything extraordinary. It was about being somewhere that allowed us to feel close to him in a way that didn’t feel overwhelming.
Grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It lingers in the background, then suddenly sharpens without warning. Losing my father—especially the way we did, to cancer, and far too soon—left a kind of absence that doesn’t neatly heal. It changes shape over time, but it never disappears. There’s a quiet pain in knowing that the person who mattered so deeply, who should still be here, simply isn’t.
But there’s also something else. Something quieter, but just as real.
Connection.
That day on the mountain, there was a sense—hard to explain, but impossible to ignore—that he wasn’t entirely gone. Not in the ways that matter. In the cold air, in the stillness, in the shared silence between Lee and me, there was comfort. A feeling of safety. Like we had stepped into a space where grief and love could coexist without fighting each other.
I carried my rosary with me that day. Not as a symbol for anyone else—but as something deeply personal. A source of strength while I was trying to process not just the loss of my father, but a lifetime of complicated pain. Abuse. Alienation. The kind of experiences that leave you questioning your sense of belonging, your worth, your place in the world.
Holding onto the rosary gave me something steady when everything else felt uncertain. It grounded me. It reminded me that even in the middle of grief and unresolved pain, there is still something to hold onto—faith, resilience, and the quiet belief that love doesn’t end just because someone is gone.
Grieving my father has never been just about missing him. It’s also been about reconciling everything that came before—what was said, what wasn’t, what was taken, and what I wish had been different. That kind of grief is layered. It’s not simple. But it’s real.
And yet, in moments like that day at Sunday River, there’s a sense of peace that breaks through.
Not because the pain is gone—but because, for a moment, it softens.
We didn’t need a big gesture to honor him. Just being there, remembering, feeling, and allowing ourselves to connect in whatever way we could—that was enough. It still is.
Grief has a way of isolating people, but it can also create space for something meaningful. A quiet connection. A reminder that love continues, even when someone is no longer physically here.
And on that mountain, in the cold Maine air, we felt it.
We felt him.
YouTube GoPro Videos:
William “Billy” Stowell, Project Engineer, Sunday River Ski Resort:
Related Links:
William R. Stowell Memorial Site on Instagram
William R. Stowell Graduated Third Honors from Gould Academy in Bethel, Maine (1962)
William R. Stowell Graduated from the University of Maine Orono with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Civil Engineering (1968)
William R. Stowell Working on Property Where He Built a Brand New Home for His Family in Bethel, Maine (1969)
William R. Stowell Designed Railroad Crossing on Nuclear Carrying Rail for Mare Island Naval Shipyard, Vallejo, California (1985)
William R. Stowell Plays Mandolin at One of the Original Hoot Nights at the Sudbury Inn in Bethel, Maine (1990)
William “Billy” Stowell Playing Guitar with a Local Band on Mollyockett Day in Bethel, Maine – Video by Mike Stowell (1991)
William R. Stowell Takes Pictures of First Snowfall at Home in West Bethel, Maine (1992)
William R. Stowell Takes a Trip to St. Augustine, Florida to Visit Friends & the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument (1992)
William R. Stowell Plays Mandolin at a Friend’s Wedding in West Bethel, Maine (1992)
“My Last Visit with Bill” by Peter Stowell (2001)
Navigating Life After Losing a Parent: Jennifer, Lee, Onyx and Sarge Visit William R. Stowell’s Gravesite on the 12th Anniversary of Death (September 14, 2013)
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Jennifer and Lee 