Grief for my father never fully goes away. But neither does his precious presence | Opinion
Late afternoon on Father’s Day, I sat in my patio glider, surrounded by sunshine and sweat, as expected — but also by sorrow, not expected at all.
Reading throughout the day the posts friends had written on Facebook about their dads led me to tracking down all I’d written about mine through the years, which made me laugh but, being Father’s Day and all, had me crying, too.
Even though I (like my father before me) am an inveterate crier, my tears still were unanticipated. After all, this was our 12th Father’s Day without our precious dad. Shouldn’t his absence become ho-hum, old hat? Shouldn’t by now we be used to him being gone?
Of course not.
He left this sweet earth three weeks after what we suspected would be our last Father’s Day with him. So much has changed since then — in the world at large and the one we shared. My son had just graduated from high school when Dad died; now, Charlie is 30 and living halfway across the country. Two of Dad’s nine grandchildren were married back then; now, seven are, and to wonderful people he never even met. One great-grandchild had just been born; now there are 18, with two more on the way.
I’ve moved twice. Our mom, who was living on her own and still driving when he died, continues to be her ever-precious, cheerful, appreciative self, though these days at her home in an assisted living facility.
So many changes, so many milestones.
Yet sometimes, my father’s death still takes me by surprise. I might have to stop myself from calling him to share the name of a book I think he’d like, or to tell him about a story I heard on the radio, or to ask what he thinks about the craziness in politics. And admittedly, to seek his guidance when I wonder what the heck I’m doing; nobody, I venture to say, ever believed in me with such conviction as Dad did.
More often when the anniversary of his death is nigh, I shake my head to dislodge the clouds in my brain that question whether he died an eon ago or yesterday; a lifetime ago or as long as it took to reheat my coffee this morning.
The calendar on my wall affirms we are indeed a dozen years out. A dozen. A word ever linked to eggs, to roses, to doughnuts, to full moons in a year. Twelve items tidily contained in a carton, a vase, a white sticky box, a sky full of stars.
But how do you contain a dozen years?
Cupped hands can’t hold them, but our hearts can. My friend Phil and his wife, Stacy, who lost their beloved daughter Taylor to brain cancer this year, call these eternal connections “winks.” As Stacy wrote on Facebook, “Got a ‘Taylor wink’ when the live musician at lunch sang one of her favorite songs!”
I like that. Seeing her words made me realize I’ve been gathering winks for 12 years, most especially in the weeks and days preceding and in those following the anniversary of Dad’s death.
During my predawn walks, I’ll be thinking of him just as I spot a tree heavy with figs, perhaps, or a field thick with sunflowers (two of his favorites) or a random heart-shaped leaf on the sidewalk. Songs he sang to us (“Sweetheart Tree” or “Tell Me Why”), others he knew annoyed me (“I Never Promised You A Rose Garden”), and verses from poems (“The Cremation of Sam McGee”) inexplicably pop into my mind.
I drop a piece of paper and pick it up with my toes (one of my inherited talents). I somehow manage to make dinner — what he would call “a concoction” — with random ingredients in my refrigerator (another of his genetic gifts). I programmed my lock at the gym with his birthday as the combination. And with each of these, I smile to myself and think, “Hi, Daddy.”
During my walk on the anniversary of his death, I wanted a Dad wink — a rose, an egg, a doughnut, a moon fuller than full — more than ever. “Please, Lord,” I whispered, squinting into the rising sun, “even a little one?”
Minutes after getting home, I looked out the window just in time to see a bright red cardinal on my fence. I’m among those who believe cardinals are a greeting from a loved one who has died. And my dad always said he wanted to come back as a bird.
The cardinal stayed only long enough to catch my eye before flying away, and I’m fine with that. It was a gift of remembrance, a nod of faith. The visit was a reminder — to my cherished childhood friend whose mom just died and whom I loved like my own; to another who lost both parents in less than a year; to my new friend I met at her daughter’s springtime wedding, whose dad had died merely months before; to everyone with an empty place at dinner; to my siblings and to me — to look for the signs, the winks, the messages.
They come and they comfort, whether a dozen minutes or days or years (and many times over) later – when we least expect them and when a certain someone knows we need them most. Which I did and I do and I always will. And, for which, I am ever grateful.
Leslie Barker is a writer living in Dallas.
