The Aisles of Us: A Tribute to My Father and Our Family Legacy

I wrote this just days after my father died, and read it aloud at his celebration of life. It was one of the hardest, clearest things I’ve ever written.

This isn’t just about grief. It’s about legacy. The kind built in grocery aisles, backstage at community shows, and around the quiet decisions no one else sees.

This is Aisles of Us.

There are places in the world where the walls hold memory.

And Tatsuda’s was one of them.

Not just a store. Not just a business.

It was a living, breathing ecosystem of love, leadership, generations, and community.

And at the heart of it all was you, Dad.

You didn’t just run a store. You built a gathering place. A heartbeat. A home.

A slightly chaotic, cardboard-filled home.

You taught me how to serve customers with kindness.

How to solve problems with calm. How to lead without ego.

And how to take responsibility quietly, to do the hard, often unseen work with grace, with steadiness, and without needing applause.

You wore pens in your shirt pocket like a uniform. Your suspenders were iconic.

You had your jokes, the quiet kind, the ones you’d say with a straight face just long enough to make people question if you were serious.

And far beyond the aisles,

you taught me how to fish.

How to ride a bike.

How to swim.

You gave me a seat at the tableway before I was “ready.”

I got to sit in on real business conversations when most kids were still at the kid table.

You didn’t coddle me.

You invited me in.

You gave me a platform to learn,

to grow, to make mistakes and to evolve.

You didn’t teach through lectures. You taught by living it and letting me try.

And I was proud to be yours.

To wear the name.

To host events together.

To laugh with you in a tuxedo and gown at community shows

where we always found a way to talk about inventory backstage.

To be your daughter, not just in name, but in heart and in purpose.

Now, the aisles are gone.

The lights are out.

The doors are closed.

But the spirit of that place,

what we built together,

still lives in me.

I walk those aisles in memory now.

I hear the echo of your steps, feel the rhythm of your presence

in the way I move through the world.

In the quiet moments when I lead with compassion,

when I solve a problem,

when I take care of someone without being asked,

I feel you.

Because you’re in me. In every meeting I lead. \

In every choice I make.

In every moment I show up when it’s hard.

You are the reason I know how.

This grief is wide.

It carries both the collapse of a store and the loss of a man.

But I carry you. Everywhere I go.

I carry the laughter,

the lessons,

the grocery lists,

the leadership,

the late-night jokes,

and the love.

I carry the aisles of us.

And they are full.