It has now been three years. Thirty-six months. 1,096 days, one extra one for leap year. 26,280 hours. 1,576,800 minutes.

I have felt every single one of those moments acutely.

I can relive every single moment of that day over and over again. I remember the songs that we played on the radio as we left for the swim meet in the morning. I can remember the clothes I was wearing. I can remember how brightly the sun was shining and what a beautiful winter day full of sunshine and snow it was. I even remember the moment my alarm clock went off.

It’s so weird to be able to remember those things, especially the things that happened before the awful moment. But I’ve realized that I hold on to those memories because they were all the very last time that things were normal and good.

Other things are less clear to me, though, and I hate that I’m losing them.

The other day, I remembered a mole that Steve had next to his eye, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if it was on his left eye or his right one. Even though I can still picture his face clearly, I just couldn’t remember which side the mole was on, and it broke my heart all over again.

Over the holiday, we spent some time talking about how it is weird to us that Dad isn’t here to know us now, considering how much we’ve all changed since he died. Of course, we wouldn’t have changed nearly as much if he were still here, or we would have changed in different ways. Change is funny that way.

In tandem with that conversation, another one evolved about how he might have changed. One thing that we had a good chuckle about was the fact that Steve had been losing his hair, and he wouldn’t admit it, but we all knew he was sensitive to it. In what has become our coping mechanism, the kids agreed that at least that was one good thing he didn’t have to deal with. Of course, we’d all give every hair on our own heads to have just one more day with him, but as I said, we’ve developed our own ways to cope, and sometimes they’re slightly morbid.

One thought that I have frequently, and have had more as my kids move closer to adulthood, is that we want our kids to be better versions of ourselves. Steve and I worried a lot about how our kids would turn out. Granted, they still have a long time to go until they can officially be considered “turned out,” I think, but progress has been made. What is truly a miracle to me is how much of Steve comes through in each of them all the time.

Sometimes it’s all the best things. Watching A go off to school, entering a new environment, meeting new people, accepting new challenges has been like watching Steve take on a new project all over again. Between his height and his outgoing demeanor, A frequently emerges as a leader of whatever group he takes up with. I didn’t see or hear from him during his sojourn at the beginning of the school year. However, the comments and photos that his new friends shared afterward revealed that he handled the whole situation, from carrying a pack twice as big as anyone else’s, to being prepared for anything they may encounter, to always pushing himself to his limits. In other words, exactly like Steve would have.

Watching G take on the landscaping project this summer, the one that Steve started, was another moment that took my breath away. Part of it involved moving a section that Steve had built. I could tell that it pained him to undo his dad’s work, but in order for his vision to work, it just had to be done. He took the time to put things back together as near to the original as he could. Steve was always about improving on the past while paying homage to it, and G fit that mold perfectly. Additionally, G has really taken to cooking his wild game in new and exciting ways. One of Steve’s proudest accomplishments was hosting the wild game dinner at our church, and G is doing him proud in the kitchen. For now, he is content getting his friends and family to try out his new dishes. But, someday, who knows?

E’s resemblance to Steve is sometimes the hardest to see, but yet it many ways, it is the most obvious.

While Steve had many varied interests over the years, from the time I met him until the day he died, hunting was his one true passion. Doing it, sharing it, teaching others about it, telling stories, as long as it was hunting adjacent, he was all about it. E is very similar to Steve in pursuing her passion. Over the last year she has made some difficult decisions to stop doing some of her other activities to focus on one main one. She has the same passion that Steve had for the things that are most important to her.

Over the last year, I’ve watched her roll out of bed for practices just like I watched Steve get out of bed to go hunting, even though sleeping in would have been the preferable option. I’ve watched her give up time with her friends to travel to competitions. She knows it’s hard, but she has the discipline and the passion to do it, and that is the most Steve thing about the three of them.

Steve wasn’t perfect by any stretch, and of course, some of those less desirable traits also live on in the kids, most noticeably everyone’s short tempers. But just like Steve, forgiveness comes to all of them easily. The kids all mimic his dropping things as he walks in the door, first shoes, then bags, then outer layers, down until they’re comfortable. I don’t love this at all, but at the same time, seeing the yard sale of shoes, baggage and clothing strewn across the entryway always reminds me of Steve, so it’s not the worst thing.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears on Saturdays in the Times News