“Momma, how do you spell leprechaun?” My daughter is asking me, again, how to spell yet another word.
“L-e-p-r-e-c-h-a-u-n.” I slur the letters a little fast, hoping she won’t take notice.
“Momma, you went too fast. Spell it again.” With a focused look, she reminds me of a grade school teacher. She is equipped with a clipboard in one hand and a green pen in another.
“I have too much to do. I will spell the words later.” I get back to the task at hand, while she stomps away in the other direction.
“Fine. We can do it later.” She says. A muffled cry lingers behind as she heads to her room.
I feel guilty for whisking her away, but March has left me a bit tired. I try not relive the anguish of the moments that I experienced three years ago with my father’s death, but there’s no ducking them in this month.
The reminders come fast and unexpected.
We sit on the couch and my daughter, with her relentless chatter, says to me, “Momma, you know what I was talking about on the playground today?
I tell her no, assuming she would relay some story about how she spent her Spring Break at Disney or the beach.
Instead, right in the middle of nothing in particular, she says, “I talked about Nana (her name for my Dad). How he died. And how I remember I cried. And missed him.” There is a lightness in her tone as she says these words, but I take them seriously. She never talks about my father in such definite terms.
“Ok, honey.” That is all I can muster because I don’t want to say anything. Not because I don’t want to, but some days the finality of his passing even betrays me.
*****
It’s another morning at the school and I hurry to drop off my daughter in her classroom. A mother stops to talk to me as I try to exit. She introduces herself and within five minutes reveals that she lost her father from brain cancer. I immediately feel for her loss and let her know. Part of me feels hurled into the grief in the center of it. I think, it is really stalking me. I am never going to leave it behind.
In the days of March, I’ve heard from friends who have stories that keep juggling in my head. About the husband who lost his wife suddenly to septic shock. About the woman who died at age 40 after learning she only had leukemia ten days ago. One of my relatives was also battling a possible cancer diagnosis the week of my father’s passing. The point is you can’t bargain with the grief. There will be reminders, expected and unexpected, at the most inconvenient times with your life.
I’ve learned you really have to sift out the grief with fine precision through the sieve. It’s unwanted. You can’t dwell on it all the time. There are also reminders of life and love and happiness.
And those happen also happen unexpectedly too. My daughter grabs me as I sip my coffee. It’s another day in March. She looks at me and says, “I want you to remember something.Pay attention Momma.”
She faces me and looks into my eyes and utters these words. “I love you Momma. Are you listening? Don’t ever forget it. I love you.”
I well up with tears in my eyes. And spell out to her, I l-o-v-e y-o-u too. I feel it. And she smiles back.
This is the landslide of love that I need to remember every March.
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.
Your daughter is such a gentle compassionate soul.
I agree. What a brave little sweetheart at such a young age.
Thanks so much for your wonderful affirmation. Welcome to my site! I am grateful for your reading and commenting.
Thanks Suzicate. I appreciate your kind words about my daughter. xoxo
When Daniel remembers a memory about my father it touches me deeply. It will be four years since he passed away and I am grateful that he still remembers. I think if those memories fade it will break my heart. He is eleven and sometimes I wonder….He does remember when he passed. It took me three years to start feeling normal and still there are days that I am consumed as you are. This past weekend I found out an acquaintance of ours passed at 46 suddenly. He went to sleep and never woke up. The news saddened me and I can’t stop thinking about him and the family he left behind. We knew him for the past twelve years and it’s just a shock. Your daughter is sweet and a blessing, enjoy every moment!
Ayala,
So sorry to hear about the loss of your friend. So young. I imagine it is very difficult for his family. I know you will provide them with support and strength. I certainly understand why you will be sad if Daniel forgets. It is in the remembering that keeps them alive. Hugs to you. xoxo
Rudri, I am with you in the grief. My mother passed 6 years ago, January, and not a day goes by when something reminds me that she is gone. Our children are our life line and rhe reflections of us (literally and figuratively)
Grief comes, it goes, it stays, it is no where to be seen. That is grief. One moment you are drinking coffee, driving down the road, in the super market – and wam… it hits you in the gut. You just roll with the punches and you cry. And then you feel better, a little.
I can tell you, I miss my Mom with all of my heart and if she saw how I wallowed the first 2 years… I can hear her now, “Get out of those pajamas and do Something. Anything!”
So… I feel your pain.
Your daughter sounds delightful… isn’t it the way, when you are busy, your children want your complete attention. Keep spelling those words. Their time for asking for help of any kind is oh so short. Enjoy it while you can.
Carla,
My condolences to you and your family. I know you are right. Sometimes you have to give into the grief and just experience it. It eventually may pave the way for remembering happier memories.
Thanks so much for visiting my space and leaving your thoughtful comment. I appreciate it.
Yesterday I somehow stumbled upon your site through some links from Click It Up a Notch, a photography blog that I read regularly.
I read the first post. And then another. And another. I was struck by how close in age our daughters are… exactly one month apart. Yours reminds me of mine. The compassion. The intelligence. The generosity of spirit.
I look forward to being able to read your previous posts. Your writing makes me feel as if we are seated together having coffee. It is both beautiful and intimate. And a pleasure to read.
Thank you for your honesty your vulnerability and your gift of language.
Warmly,
Laureen
Laureen,
Welcome to my space! I am so grateful for your words.
So glad that my words found a home in your heart. Thanks so much.
You write beautifully. Your emotions are colored in every word you use and I’m touched. Your daughter is very special. I still have my father and my mother. For that I’m eternally grateful. I love your blog. I’m your newest follower.
Sela,
Thanks for visiting my space. Relish everyday you get to spend with your parents. Make memories with them. And ask them about their past because it will help you understand who you are.
So glad my words left an impression on you. Thanks so much.
Your little one is a sweetheart.
That is so sweet, and heartbreaking.
Welcome to my space. Thanks for your words.
It’s beautiful how your daughter is able to speak openly about loss at such a young age. And I believe it can only be a good thing to be as candid as possible about death and dying at any age; it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I agree Belinda. Death and dying is usually put in a little package that we tend to not touch until the end. An open dialogue about death is important no matter what your age.
Grief is like a never-ending landslide, and you never know what pebble will trigger the next wave. You captured that emotion perfectly. I wish I didn’t know what you were talking about, but I do. I lost my father in 2009 as well. Do you find certain smells trigger your grief? For me, that’s one of the most powerful triggers, and it’s not one you can guard against, or one for which you can ever be prepared.
Lovely (and heart-rending) writing, Rudri. I’m glad to have found you.
Angie,
I am so sorry for the loss of your father. 2009 is the year I lost my Dad as well. It is the unexpected pebble that always catches me off-guard. I am always surprised at how the fresh the feelings of grief can manifest even after some time has passed.
So grateful to see your words in my space. Hope that words can offer you some comfort.
Thanks so much for your insightful comment.
This is beautiful. I love how you found the comfort you needed in your daughter. Her words are so sweet.
Tiffany,
Thanks so much for visiting my space. My daughter knows how to rescue me at the exact right moment. Hope you enjoyed visiting my words.
Thank you for being so open and sharing your emotions so freely here. We lost my father-in-law to melanoma last April and it’s really hard somedays. He was such an amazing man. I can only imagine the pain you’ve gone through with the loss of your birth father. We’re trying to turn it into something positive and are hosting a golf tournament in his honor on the anniversary of his death. The money raised will go to raise awareness and fund research. We’re all hoping that being together and working toward a goal will help ease some of the pain this first year.
Thanks again and happy SITS day!
Deanna,
So sorry to hear about the loss of your father-in-law. Sending you strength.
I find writing about my father and what we witnessed cathartic. It helps me channel the grief in so many ways.
I admire your family’s willingness to bond together and champion for a cause. You will find that in those actions there is an immense amount of healing.
Appreciate your comment and your words of support in my space. Thank You.