I've heard a rumor that when I was growing up, my father worked long hours, that he was a driven, deal-making investment banker who travelled all the time. But that's not what I remember. In my mind, my father was always with me. He pitched whiffleball after whiffleball to me in our backyard. When I was in kindergarten, he once spent several hours sitting outside a classmate's birthday party in our parked Country Squire, trying to convince shy 6 year old me that it was safe to go inside.

When I was 15 and in serious danger of failing 9th grade math, he came home after a long day at work, ate dinner, changed his clothes and relearned algebra, so he could teach it to me. I can see him at our kitchen table in South Orange, bending over my 9th grade algebra textbook. He never sighed or grew impatient or complained that he was tired. This was the way it was. This was the way he was a father.

My father's extraordinary success gave me a life of privilege and opportunity. While he didn't always agree with some of my choices, he always loved, supported and accepted me. In 2004, when I flew to Hubei, China to adopt my daughter, Anna, no one was more excited or delighted.

If I loved my father as a father, I only loved him more as a grandfather. Anna especially loved to be held by him during her first weeks as a member of our family. He called her "the Kutch." When we spoke on the phone, the first thing he wanted to know was "How is the Kutch?" He loved nothing more then to push her in a stroller up a busy Manhattan sidewalk, even if it was at times a bit hair-raising. Some of my best moments during the past few years have been walking with Anna and my father through the Children's Zoo in Central Park, talking and thinking and laughing and showing Anna the penguins.

During the last week of his life, as was typical with us, we were in touch quite a bit. We talked on the phone and emailed about the state of the stock market and family vacation plans. Mundane stuff, but the kind of mundane that is a blessing, that of a daughter and father who love each other and for whom that love is a given. In his last email to me on Saturday morning, probably not too long before he died, he wanted information about my plane reservations for a family vacation to Mexico. That seems appropriate. There was nothing he loved more than to have his wife and children and grandchildren all together. He was busy planning my mother's 75th birthday celebration next August. He was the weaver of the web that winds us tightly together.

The first thing both my brother and sister said to me when we realized we lost him was "Oh, I already miss him." I think everyone who knew him feels this way. He was so present for each of us that it is impossible to believe that he is not here. He was an optimist and a realist. He despaired about the state of the world, yet he fought hard to improve it. He was continuously curious and never stopped wanting to learn new things or challenge himself.

I want to end with an image of my father that I have thought of again and again these past few days. Last April, Anna and I came to Manhattan to visit Bubbe and Zayde. We decided to take Anna to Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus, the circus we Seevak children had gone to as little kids. My father made sure we had the best seats in the house, right on the floor near the animals. The circus was wonderful. Anna loved it, we all loved it.

Afterwards, as we left Madison Square Garden, there was a sudden cloudburst, complete with thunder and lightning. We were surrounded by crowds of circus goers, and there was no way we'd ever get a cab. My mother and I began to panic, but my father got the umbrella up, took Anna into his arms and began to lead us through the byzantine twists and turns of Penn Station. He got us out of the storm and back home safe and dry.

My father is no longer here, leading and protecting me as he did for so many years. He is not with me the way he once was. But the example of his life and everything he taught me is inside me. And this gives me the strength to go on.