The first time I, Marley, heard “Pink Skies” by Zach Bryan, I was sitting on the swing at Mimi’s house—the same swing pap and mimi used to sit on every morning., The song had just dropped on May 24th. Pap had passed only six days before—May 18th. I didn’t go searching for the song. It found me. Like God had seen what just happened and whispered, “This one’s for you.”  I was still numb. That hollow kind of grief where everything feels distant, like you’re moving through someone else’s life. Mimi had been cleaning for  days—clearing out drawers filled with paps old stuff, mopping the kitchen floor that creaked under Pap’s heavy steps, wiping down his chair like she didn’t want the dust to settle there without him.

I kept hearing that lyric on repeat:
“So clean the house, clear the drawers, mop the floors, stand tall / Like no one’s ever been here before or at all.”

That’s exactly how it felt. Like she was trying to make the house forget him—when in reality, she was just trying to survive. She wasn’t erasing him. She was holding onto him the only way she knew how: by taking care of what he left behind. When I listened to the song from start to finish for the first time, I broke.
“The kids are in town for a funeral / So pack the car and dry your eyes.”

All of us grandkids had come home. Scattered from different places, we filled Mimi’s house like we used to for Christmas—but this time, it wasn’t for cookies or stories.  It was for his funeral. That lyric hit me in the chest. Zach didn’t know us, but somehow, he wrote our exact reality.

I’m the oldest of the grandkids. The one who’s always been told to “set the example.” So when I got the email saying I’d been accepted into college, I just stared at the screen for a while—half in disbelief, half heartbroken. I remember thinking how badly I wanted to run to him, shove my phone in his hands, and hear him say, “That’s my girl.” But all I had was silence and a glowing screen that felt colder than it should have.

So when Zach sang,
“If you could see me now you’d be proud,”
I closed my eyes and whispered, “I hope you are.”

Pap always believed in me. He told me I was going to do big things, even when I couldn’t see them yet. And now, every step I take toward that future, I carry his belief in me.

But the hardest part came after the funeral, after the people left, and the food stopped showing up, and the house got quiet. Mimi opened the windows, let in the breeze, but it didn’t help the emptiness. It felt like the house had lost its heartbeat.

Again, that line echoed in my mind—
“Like no one’s ever been here before or at all.”

But even in that stillness, something beautiful happened. Every night that week, the skies turned pink. Like someone had lit the clouds on fire with a soft, golden glow. I couldn’t help but think: That’s him.

And as Zach Bryan says, “And plenty nights under pink skies you taught ’em to enjoy.”

Months later, I got the chance to hear “Pink Skies” live at a Zach Bryan concert. The crowd was massive, but the moment that song started, everything else disappeared. Thousands of voices sang with him, but I felt like it was just me and Pap again. I stood there, tears in my eyes, heart wide open, and let every word wash over me.

It felt full circle—like I was closing a loop that started on Mimi’s porch and stretched into the stars. I remember leaving the stadium that night and looked up. No surprise—it was pink.

That song didn’t take the pain away, but it gave it a place to land. It reminded me that grief doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering harder, loving deeper, carrying them forward with you.

Now, as I finish up high school and move onto  college, I take him with me. Not just in pictures or memories, but in the way I live. In every pink sky I stop to admire. In every hard day I push through. In every proud moment I know he’d be smiling at.

And if he could see me now, I know—
He’d be proud.