As February winds down, I am confronted with the birth of March. It is a month that presents a paradox – the arrival of Spring, but the anniversary of my father’s death. This year will mark six years since we lost him. There are days that I still struggle to let go of his loss, but fail.
I still look for him. When I embark on my morning run and pass the Indian man in the checkered long sleeve shirt, sporting his bald head and glasses, I recognize my father. He loved walking, often dressing in street clothes to take his strolls through the neighborhood. I try to fill in the gaps, wondering if what I dismiss may be a sign or my father’s way of saying hello. When I receive a piece of mail with my father’s name and my address, does this represent his way of reminding me that he is still watching over us in his own way? Logic takes a bow and I realize that the man walking is just that, a man walking, and the mail addressed to a dead person is a mistake. I return to where I started, looking for ways to close the hole, fill in the space or compensate for the loss.
Grief presents no real rhythm. It sometimes comes with a push, like in the middle of the night, when the quiet screams, “You can’t call Dad for advice. He isn’t here anymore,” or a nudge, when a friend mentions in a conversation that her father took her kids to a special breakfast. Tears gather together in the corner of my eye and within a few minutes, I find myself wiping the trail of sadness from my face. Some days the reminders don’t appear. They hide until next time.
****
This past weekend, I cooked breakfast for my family. My husband and daughter craved omelets, sunny-side up. As the eggs sizzled on the pan, I made a passing comment to my husband, “My Dad loved to eat his eggs this way. I wonder if he can see us now.” We continued with breakfast and the day unfolded as usual, errands, lunch and a weekend nap. In the middle of the afternoon, I received a message from a friend who I knew from my childhood. She decided to reach out because of a dream she had about my family. In this dream, she saw my mom and my sister talking to me, while my father smiled in the periphery. At some point, she recalls telling me that my father is doing well and that he is watching over us. When I read this message, I started crying because only hours before I wondered about my father and it is as if he heard my plea and it manifested in her dream.
I could dismiss my thoughts and her dream as a coincidence, but my gut tells me that these intersections occur for a reason. In the last few weeks, my melancholy is more palpable because my father’s death anniversary looms as a backstory. Searching for a way to fill in the gaps, my friend’s message appeared as way to negotiate that space. It is temporary salve for my grief, but in that single moment, my space streamed with nostalgic memories, love and the thought that, somewhere, just maybe, my father’s out there loving and laughing with me.
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.
This is beautiful and I so closely relate. I recently had a friend reach out to me about a dream she had about my dad and that he told her he was happy and ok. Wow, it was so outrageously powerful and so very much what my aching soul needed to fill the gap too. Sending love and peace to you this March as you remember your father.
Amy: I am glad your friend reached out to you. It is such a comfort. Thinking of you as well, Amy, as I know you understand this grief. xo
The anniversaries are so difficult. I go through this with my grief as well. I believe in these small signs and I believe he is watching you and yours with love. Sorry my friend, it’s hard. The other day I listened to a cassette player of my dad and I and I was broken hearted. Xoxo
Oh, Ayala, I am certain listening to your father brought heartbreak and a sliver of happiness. The anniversaries uncover an array of emotions that are sometimes hard to process. Thank you friend, for your words. xo
I love this photograph, so precious!
I think they send us signs they are watching, but I think we sometimes dismiss them as our overactive imaginations….at least, I like to think they are sending us signs.
It is one of my favorite photographs. It captures so much. I am with you, Susan. I like to think it is their way of communicating with us. xo
What beautiful timing!! Yes, he’s still watching 🙂
Agreed, Windy. The timing seems too powerful to ignore. xo
You’ve taken your grief and recast it into a beautiful story.
Thanks, Luanne. It is difficult to release the grief sometimes, but I am always grateful when I am able to find a place for it.
Hi Rudri,
The way you hold your father so close in your heart speaks volumes about the man, father, and grandfather (and husband to your mother) he was in this life. What a blessing that your friend called to share her dream with you, like a small miracle and a special gift from your father for you (and maybe your mother and sister, too).
That is a very sweet picture of your daughter wrapped up in her grandfather’s arms.
Robin
Thanks, Robin. So much of it unexpected, I am glad that my friend took the leap to let me know about her dream. It definitely made an impact on my family and offered comfort in a time when we all needed it the most.
I appreciate your praise and lovely words, Robin. xo
Hi Rudri,
So sorry for your loss. This is truly a beautiful piece you’ve written.
I lost my father at the beginning of the year and thought I’d share the eulogy I read. Again, my sincere condolences.
—
“Thank you for being here. I have attended these sorts of gatherings for others but this is the first time I have had to deal with a loss as personal as this one. My mother died before I turned two and our father raised us entirely on his own. We had sitters and live-in housekeepers while we were young, but in our later years, were ‘latch key’ kids before we even knew the term.
All my good qualities are direct result of my dad and my flaws are entirely my own. He always took great joy in my successes and provided much support and comfort in the face of my many setbacks. For years I had realized that someday I would most likely face the loss of my dad, and wondered just how I would handle it. He was a wonderful father, friend and mentor, and it pains me deeply that he’s gone.
But my strength also comes from him and is part of me. He was a man full of love – for me; my brother and sister, and everyone he came in contact with. He loved you all whether he met you or not because he knew that as my friends, you also looked out for me, and shared that love in your friendship.
You could get an idea of who my dad was by his sisters and brothers and friends. They were funny and outgoing like he was. I remember how much he and my aunts and uncles made me laugh when they’d get together, and always felt close to those other members of my family.
I would also like to thank his wife Kathy for the happiness she brought my dad all these years, and for bringing our two families together. It is a great comfort to know how much he was loved by you and all of your family.
He was happy to learn that I was quoted recently in a book by my friend from the University of Texas.
It read –
“I see a pattern where the randomness of human actions can be directed through probability for an overall cumulative and positive effect. All throughout our society there is a butterfly effect that we are most always oblivious to…I guess my message is to go boldly forth and increase the peace and love and know you are not alone. You may not always be aware of the others choosing to follow this same path as you, but they’re out there, and they’re making a difference.”
I thank you all for being part of that ripple effect. That simple act of looking out for each other is perhaps the most meaningful way to honor him, and it would bring him much joy to know that you lived your lives making a difference.
Thank you all for making a difference in my life.”
My gut tells me the same thing – that these situations are related.
My father died when I was so young, that I grieve more for what I didn’t have. I miss not knowing him. My grandparents’ death is more fresh and I just often wish for a way to know they’re watching over me.
I know, Tamara, that you unfortunately understand this grief. I appreciate you telling me that you too think that the situations are related.
The signs might come when you least expect it, Tamara. I hope that they come soon. xo
It’s not irrational to look for cues.. I also believe spirits lurk and their presence can be known at the most necessary times. Coincidence or not, it’s nice to think it isn’t. I hope you find more comfort this anniversary than the last, and even more in the future ones ahead. Likewise, I would hope to believe that your father is loving and laughing with you as well. Have a great one and take care Rudri! -Iva
As I adjust to the grieving process, I do look around and pay attention to the whispers that might offer comfort. I am with you – I like to think of these glimpses as more than a coincidence. Thank you for such nurturing words, Iva. I appreciate it.
I love how much you love your dad.