Two weeks ago, tears streamed down my face while watching a movie in a packed theater. My visceral reaction unleashed a grief I try to keep under wraps. Most of the time I am successful, but in this particular scene, a daughter eulogizes her father at his funeral. I tilted my head up to try to stuff the tears back into my eyes, but I’ve done this long enough to know it never works. Instead, I gave in and let my sadness take the reign.
In the last two years, I’ve noticed a shift in my grief. It’s more quiet, but sometimes, I’ll bawl in my closet or wipe away tears when no one is looking. I reveal to very few people how much I miss my father. As the years pass, it is a struggle to find a place for my grief to land. Last night, during an evening run, as my pace quickened, my mind fixated on a horrid thought – What if I forget about all of our memories? It is a consequence of not living the grief out loud. A part of me hesitates doing so, since its been six years since his passing.
My relationship with grief is one I struggle to navigate, but I accept it’s my own. Today is one of those days when I feel like announcing my grief. It’s my father’s birthday. Just typing those four words pushes the tears to my eyes and I am writing this piece in a blur. I miss my father. So much. Many times, I’ve picked up the phone to dial my childhood home phone number, even touching the digits, but realizing this home doesn’t exist and my father is gone. I’ve said to no one in particular, “Can you come and say hello, Dad?” I miss talking to him. My father loved to banter about politics, current news and the mundane. We’d stay up and argue about the silliest things and sometimes feelings would get hurt, but then we’d move onto the next subject. I love those conversations, because like my father, I love coffee and chatting about the ins and outs of this life. In an odd way, this talking about nothing and everything, helped make sense of my world. With him, the talking left. And because of this void, a part of me will always remain silent.
After his passing, my sadness revolved around missing my father, the parent. I longed to say, “My father said this or my parents are going to be traveling here or my daughter loves hanging out with her grandpa or debating which card to send him for Father’s Day…” Now its become something different. I miss my father, one of my favorite friends. I don’t think I ever told him how much his friendship meant to me because I didn’t even know that’s what it was. Can you believe that? This is another part of the grief. Little bits of me unravel and present these epiphanies and it’s not like I can call him up and tell him, by the way, Dad, did you know you were one of my favorite people to hang out with?
I long to say something uplifting about the time we spent, but it is difficult to lean on memories when all I want to share are the new parts of my life. My father never read a single piece of my writing and only knew me as an attorney. He doesn’t know how much I love the desert because he passed a few months before we moved to our new hometown. There is so much he’s missed. And I want to rush to the phone or visit him and tell him about the spaces all of us have filled since he’s been gone.
As much as I’ve moved forward, I am torn because with each step, it furthers the distance between the last time my father and I had a real conversation. I rarely make a request in my writing space, but maybe all of you can do a favor for me. If you think of your father as one of your friends, make sure you tell him. I couldn’t give this gift to my father, but you can.
Happy Birthday, Dad. Your friend always, your daughter, 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.
I’m so sorry for the loss of your dad Rudri. My dad is having some issues with memory, but I will be sure to tell him how I feel about him. Hopefully, as his memory goes, he will still remember the love.
Thank you for your condolences, Estelle. So grateful you let your father know exactly how you feel about him. For that, my eternal gratitude. xo
Oh, Rudri, I know it really isn’t much of anything, but I am sending you a virtual hug. I can’t say that I have the same kind of relationship with my father that you did, but I certainly can understand the depth and shifting terrain of your grief since he passed because of what you so poignantly wrote here. Peace to you, my friend.
Kristen, your virtual hug means so much (don’t ever think otherwise). Thank you for sending these comforting words my way. It means more than you will ever know. xo
Oh Rudri… I’m not sure what your belief system is (I identify as a pagan), but I do believe our loved ones check in on us occasionally. I bet your Dad does know about your writing and how much you love the desert…
Regardless, sending many, many virtual hugs your way… grief has a way of being ever present but still sneaking up on us. I do think that talking about it as much as you need to (even if it’s too “late”) would be helpful. I’ve found that my losses always seem to require that.
Dakota,
Perhaps this post in particular will offer me the courage to talk about my grief more. As I sunk in to the overwhelming emotions after writing this piece, I understand grief has no expiration date. I will make a conscious choice of honoring the feelings when they come. A million thank you for your support, my friend. xo
My heart hurts for you, Rudri. I know all too well how I want to pick up the phone and tell my father some tidbit I think he will find as interesting as I do…and then reality sets in.
Sometimes we must let grief flow as it may…and fall where it may or may not.
I know you understand, Susan. It’s hard, but as you suggested, sometimes the grief must spill over even if it is messy. xo
This is beautiful!
Thank you, Windy. xo
Sending love and virtual hugs. Love you.
Love you back, Kitch. Thank you. xo
Wow, it’s as if I wrote this piece myself. I relate to every single word. A theme similar to this has been playing around in my head. You may just have inspired me to dive in and write it in honor of my father’s birthday in a couple weeks. Thank you for making my heart feel less lonely today.
Amy,
I hope you write that post. It won’t be easy, but I felt a sense of relief when I revealed how my grief is evolving into something I didn’t expect. These words rattled in my head for some time and it felt right honoring those feelings on his birthday. Sending you hugs. xo
Oh Rudri ❤️ my thoughts are with you. Sending you hugs .
I know, Ayala. And your support is a lighthouse in my grief. xo
Rudri, my heart understands parent loss, especially beloved parent loss. It is so clear from your writing, and not just this post, how much and how dearly you loved your father, and how deep your loss is. Like you, my grief comes in waves, and after 8 years I often hide mine. I don’t know, sometimes it feels almost indulgent even though I know it is not. I miss my mother in such a visceral way, and I often call out and speak to her. My thoughts are with you and your dear father on this day that is his birthday. I can imagine he would be so incredibly proud and in awe of your beautiful words.
Oh, Dana. Your comment brought me to a fresh set of tears (in the best sense). It helps to know I am not alone in the hiding, the indulgence (or not) and this rollercoaster of grief. Thank you, my friend. xo
Sending you hugs and thinking of both you and your dad on this special day.
Shannan,
Thank you. I appreciate your wishes and comforting words. xo
I’m so sorry for your loss, Rudri. You honor your father with your beautiful writing in his memory. I don’t have the same kind of relationship with my dad as you did with yours, but I will call him today to tell him I love him. Thank you for sharing your words and grief with us.
Thank you, Kathy. It means so much that you are choosing to pick up the phone to call your Dad. I so appreciate this gift. Love to you and Dan and the family. xo
Rudri sorry for your loss very touching share xo. It’s a testament that time doesn’t change the loss we feel for those we love, that we heal slowly sometimes but it is still with us daily. My best to you and your family may you hold on to those memories and grieve but also smile because you had your loved ones in your life xo
Yes, Mari, I sometimes to forget to acknowledge what is and focus on what isn’t. I can choose to lean into every happy memory I shared with my father. I know this is a gift. Thank you for your kind words. xo
That’s so interesting – I only miss my father and what could have been. Since I never even got to age four with him, I’ve never known him as a friend. I suppose I miss what could have been now – seeing him as a grandfather.
What movie did you see?
Tamara,
Grief comes from such varying perspectives. There isn’t one right way. The loss of your father at such a young age is a much different terrain than the one I am navigating. But I know we both feel a sense of sadness.
(Believe it or not it was Trainwreck).
I get this. I lost my dad six years ago, too. I try to remember the things about him that can easily weave happily in to my daily life, but sometimes I remember and think of other things that make me sad. It’s tough especially on meaningful anniversaries and holidays. But it is getting easier. Time doesn’t heal all wounds with grief but it does give the gift of perspective on those wounds.