Tell me Dad, how are you doing? I wonder where you are. Sometimes in my half-sleep, I think you are going to walk into my kitchen, open the fridge and pull out a Pepsi and grab a bag of potato chips. In my version, you tell me you are doing great, that there is an unlimited supply of soda and chips where you are.
Tell me Dad, can you see us? Do you know that Mom lives with us now? We are all taking care of her, just like we promised. She is not the same, but she pretends well. She is so lonely without you and would even pay to hear one of your lectures about how things should be done. She is always remembering every single quirk about you, from how you hated sandwiches, but loved rice and lentils, slurping them, by putting them in your mouth with your hands, eating like only a true Indian. You would tell us there was a certain “santosh” (contentment) in eating with your hands.
Tell me Dad, can you hear us? We have cried tears, loud, silent, in crowded spaces and in the bathroom at three in the morning. People console us, telling us you lived a long life. But I can’t find solace in those voices because they don’t know. We talk about those final days, where blisters covered your body from shingles and breathing was something that didn’t happen naturally for you. It was the vengeance of the cancer that we can’t forgive, the sheer misery of keeping you alive, knowing that the ultimate prize wasn’t the grace of dying in a peaceful way. There will never be personal grace in your dying, because Dad I missed saying goodbye to you by fifteen minutes. What would you tell me if I told you I’m mad that you didn’t wait? Perhaps you would tell me that I should have come earlier. Maybe you would be right.
Tell me Dad, can you hear the laughter? We still laugh. Because that is the way it is meant to be. Dad, really, everyone moves on. When we were all in it, we use to talk about how could we live our lives with one important piece missing. But it happens. I am living my life, laughing at times at your granddaughter’s antics, sighing when she exhausts me. There are times when I tickle my own Mom’s belly. I think that is more for you. To remind you that she hasn’t forgotten to laugh. Even R., your younger daughter and I share laughs over the phone, talking about random happenings in our life. We’ve all moved on, in ways we only know, but each of us won’t ever be able to go completely back. The laughter is there, but sometimes it is a little hollow.
Well Dad, I’ve posed the questions. So at this point you’ve monopolized the whole conversation. But it’s time for me to do some talking. I want you to know that I’m sorry I was late. I didn’t say goodbye like I wanted to. Tell me you meant that to happen, right, Dad? You were trying to protect me, sparing me from watching you gasping for space.
I want to tell you Dad that Mom, Sis and I miss and love you.
We all wish you could tell us too.
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On March 22 of this year it will be two years since my father’s passing. Thanks to my family, friends and readers who tell me everyday how much I am loved. A very hearty and special thanks to the blogger community who have marched with me in March, writing messages of comfort, on and off line. I will never be able to thank you enough. xoxo Rudri
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
It is hard to think of a worthy response, Rudri. Better than anyone I know, you articulate your grief and the depth of your loss. I appreciate your transparency and authenticity in this. I hope you know how special you are and I know your Dad is so so proud of you. He did a great job. Way to go, Dad.
Thanks Kerry. You help me process my grief on our morning runs. Love ya lady. Thank you for being there for me.
Gut wrenching Rudri. Gut-wrenching because I understand. I understand this so well. And I wonder so many of the same things about my mother. Sending hugs. Keep writing my friend, it will keep helping.
Thanks Christine for your encouragement. You are right. Writing provides a cathartic release. It provides me with a way to define what I’m feeling. And I will definitely take the hugs. I need them especially today.
Hugs to you and your family, dear Rudri. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult these last two years have been for each of you.
Thanks Suzicate. I appreciate your warm thoughts today. The last two years have been trying, but made easier by the comfort I receive from family, friends and this virtual community.
Wow, thinking of you, your family and your dad. All the while wiping tears off of my face. Your love, sharing and honesty are compelling and I hope that you and your family find support in one another tomorrow (and every other day). Your Dad sounds like a sweet man.
Thanks Judy. I appreciate your sentiment. I do seek comfort in my family, friends and the community I’ve found here. Thanks so much for stopping by and thinking of me during this time.
Oh, this is beautiful and sad and incredibly moving. I will be sending you many extra hugs and warm thoughts on March 22. I can’t imagine the pain, but we are here for you if you need us. We are.
Thanks Kitch. Need the hugs. And will take them. Anytime. xoxo
This is so beautiful, Rudri. And touching. And painful.
It’s been 25 years since my father was taken – too young, too tragically. He never knew his grandsons. I wonder, too, if he can hear their laughter. I like to think so.
Thinking of you.
Wolf: Thanks so much for your support in the last year. You’ve been so attuned to my thoughts about grief and I appreciate your insight. Yes, my hope is that your sons laughter reaches your father too. And I also hope that he sees the wonderful woman and mother you are. xoxo
Hugs to you and your family!
Thanks D. Your friendship is something I treasure.
xoxo
My heart is bursting and aching, all at the same time. Such a beautiful tribute. My thoughts are with you and your family and keeping you close to my heart.
Thanks Jane. I appreciate your loving thoughts. It ache to write this particular piece.
Oh, Rudri, I’m sending the warmest of thoughts and the biggest of hugs to you. What a tough, tough anniversary to mark. Nothing really makes it easier, does it? You write about your father, your family, so beautifully, and I hope that continues to bring you some small measure of solace, today and every day.
I’m waiting for it to become easier, but as the minutes pass, it just gets harder. I think it is because we get farther and farther away from the memories with him in them. Writing about him and my family certainly helps, but the pain of it remains very sharp. Thanks for your warm thoughts.
Many tears, Rudri… as I just finished a phone call with my own Father who is suffering in so much pain from his own Cancer. ;(
I can’t even imagine 2 years from now, 2 months, 2 days… when the Patriarch of a family passes, how does one move on? I am so sad. Please tell me how to laugh when his time comes… right now I’m in awe of your strength. Your Dad knew what he was doing those 15 minutes prior to your arrival. It’s no fun watching someone that you love and care about in so much pain and pass. Keep smiling and laughing, I know he’s “somewhere” eating lots of potato chips, rice and lentils while washing it down with a nice cold soda!
{{{Hugs today & always}}}
Angie-
Oh, Angie, I know of what your are enduring right now. I know it is hard. Relish each and every moment with your father. And of course, when you are ready, I will be honored to show you how to laugh. If you need me, you know where to find me. Thanks for your lovely thoughts.
I read this last night and then went off on my reflection of what this day means for me. It’s the day when my dad would’ve had a birthday. There are a handful of days that are fraught with still raw feelings adn this is one of them for me. A day when I wound’ve wanted t ocelebrate but now no longer have a reason to.
This is a beautiful tribute to your father’s presence. And I do think they live on; we keep them alive in so many ways beyond their physicality, for so many years long after they’ve departed.
I’ve found that writing about my father helps keep my memory of him alive. Because my mom lives with us, we talk about him often, his likes, dislikes and his quirks. It gives comfort to both of us.
I am sorry for your loss Belinda. There are days, I agree, that the grief is too raw to digest. But with memories brewing in each of us, we maybe able to derive some solace.
A beautiful tribute…thinking of you today Rudri. Hope you find some peace amidst the sadness of today.
Thanks Alisa. I am working on the peace part. I have a feeling it won’t come for some time.
Oh, honey. The love you have for you father — and that he had for you — shines through in your words and thoughts and memories and regrets. I pray that he’s at peace now, even if he couldn’t have it then. I also pray you forgive yourself for what you can’t change. Hugs.
Yes. Kelly. You said exactly what I was thinking – that I haven’t forgiven myself yet. Although I believe that he didn’t want me to be there in the final moments, I wish I was there for him. But your right – I can’t change what has happened. I have to live with it.
Thanks for your support and thoughtful words.
Heartbreaking, beautiful, drenched in love and the melancholy of impermanence, the bewilderment of loss and pain… It just makes the parent in me wish to envelop you in the love we all have for our children, for the child that is you today, and always will be for both your parents, and your ancestors before them… kisses for tears, and love in our lentils.
I love the eloquence and sentiment of your words. I feel the “melancholy of impermanence” so much that sometimes it startles me. “Love in Lentils” – I will definitely say that to myself in those moments that my mind strays difficult times. Thanks for your thoughts. They uplifted me.
Heartbreaking post but beautiful. The sad thing is that it doesn’t get easier. I know this heartbreak. It’s almost three years since my dad is gone. And it’s nineteen months since my mom. I think about them every day and I wonder how they are. I would like to think that they are watching us. With my dad I didn’t get to say goodbye which was devastating . With my mom I was there when she took her last breath. I am sorry for your loss.
I am sorry for both of your losses. I can’t fathom the depth of such heartbreak. The hardest part for me is wondering how my father is doing. I so want him to come and tell me that he is doing well. That he can breathe and laugh and feel the peace around him. I’m certain you are wondering the same about your parents. You will be in my thoughts Ayala.
Rudri, your love for your dad here is palpable. If my kids remember me the way you do your dad, then I know I have done something right. I have no doubt he was an amazing man, and if he saw these words and saw you today, I know he would think the same about you.
Thanks for your kind words. He never read any of my writing. Hoping in my heart he can feel the sentiment in my words. Wherever he is.
This beautiful but also heartbreaking, as any of us who have lost a loved one knows only too well the sentiments expressed here. I never know whether I sound crazy when I say this but I’m going to say it again anyway – I really do believe that your Dad knew all this as you wrote it and that every time you think of him he is near.
Thanks for your comforting thoughts. I did feel like he was with me when I was writing this post. I was so consumed by tears as I typed my thoughts, but when I was finished writing it, I felt a huge sense of relief. In an odd way, I do feel like his presence was near.
I’m sorry for your loss, Rudri. I do feel your love for your dad, if we can feel it through your writing, I believe he felt it too through your presence.
It is always so heartbreaking to lose someone we love so dearly. You however seem to have put into words what many of us could just feel in our hearts. I am so sorry you missed him by 15 minutes, I missed my mom by almost half an hour but the thought that she is in a good place comforts me somehow. I am sure your dad’s smiling at you now.
People say you change as a person when you become a mother. This I completely agree with. I also think that when you lose someone close to you- it changes you forever as well.
Not a day goes by that I dont think about my grandmother, talk to her or miss her. Her suffering is also something that has stayed with me…I constantly think about what we could have or should have done differntly to ease that for her.
We were there with her every step- except for her final moment. I too think she went without us there purposely, just like your dad.
My life will never be the same without her.
The emotions are palpable here. Isn’t this why some of us love to blog? To put our thoughts down and have someone respond? Looks like you are handling your loss well. Thank you for sharing. Happy SITS day.
What a beautiful tribute. You have been so blessed to have a love like this for your father. I am very sorry for your loss and continued pain. May the moments of peaceful reflection far outnumber the moments off pain.
I still have both my mother and father here on earth – although my mother’s health is fading quickly. And these questions you pose are exactly what I wonder while they’re still here. Will they see us? Will they be around somehow? Will they hear us and how will they be doing? They both have a strong religious faith – but I wonder. I know I will even more when they’ve passed. I’m glad to hear you feel your Dad’s nearness.
How beautiful. In your sadness, you have honored your father…and reminded the rest of us to soak up the moments we have with all of our loved ones.
This is very moving my love and hugs go to you…
Writing from your heart and sharing that with us is truly a gift. You wrote the words some of us may feel, but never say. And, though death is part of life, it is still a rollercoaster ride for those left behind. Thank you.
wow, that was very moving. Thank you for sharing.
(found you through sits)
What a lovely post and tribute to your father. I am grateful for my belief that we will be with our loved ones again someday. It helps take a little bit of that sting.
Your post is achingly beautiful. This is my first reading of your blog but I’ll be back. Bless you.
This is one of those posts that I wish I could comment on but can’t. I’m speechless. This is absolutely beautiful.
Beautifully written! I imagine it’s hard to revisit such painful memories. God bless!
and Happy SITS Day!
That is such a sweet post. It is bittersweet for me, because I never had a real relationship with my father- so when he passed, a void just came- and filled the space where he used to be. You are very lucky to mourn like this, because it is a testament to the depth of your love for each other.
Wonderful post.
It’s great to honor your dad’s memory in your blog. Thank you for your openness
I sometimes wonder where my mom is even though I say I have faith in life after death and heaven. It has been 2 years since her passing this year as well. Oddly I also missed my mom’s passing by about 15 minutes but I did say goodbye to her the day prior. We spent that whole day with her in fact, so I am at peace with it. It is hard losing our parents no matter how old we are. Take care.
It’s so tough! My mom passed away in 2009 too. And I didn’t get to say goodbye. It’s funny how a driving by a certain place or a certain thing can remind you of them. I tend to do that alot.
Heart breaking. I dread the day one of my parents leaves this Earth.