The spotlight of grief crowds my pathway. I push it away. I ignore the cracking underneath my feet. The eggshells are only in my mind. No one else sees them. I am too tired to explain. This unnecessary thought, even though no one is asking. To grieve in silence masks the echo. I keep shouting, but the words land like whispers no one wants to hear.
March always arrives with its robust reminder of spring. In the desert, the heat is casting its gaze, the pavement hot from its presence. Flowers take residence, the potpourri of yellows, purples and reds ignite the otherwise sand and gravel landscape. The sunsets come with a fury, a blending of light and dark and I look up, as I often do, for a sign, an answer or a moment of peace. I wait. Nothing happens. Instead, my shoulders hunch, my back slouches and tears threaten.
I don’t cry. I tilt my head, convincing them to retreat. I remind myself, my father’s passing didn’t happen yesterday. This March will mark seven years since my family lost him on a Sunday, the day that signifies an end and the edge of beginnings. As much as I convince myself to forget the moment when I lost my father, I cannot. I remember the metal railings of his hospital bed, the Cinnamon glade candle in the corner of the room and the prescription bottles crowding the white dresser. When I walked into this room, I yelled when I knew and I immediately curled up next to my father, begging him to stay. “Please don’t go, Dad. Please, Please.”
I cannot forget the imagery of my life. It boomerangs toward me, hurling with uncontrollable ease in quiet, noise and happiness. I don’t tell anyone, though. What will come of confessing this particular sadness? I sit with it. I revisit the most difficult moments, a montage of sadness mounts its mutiny. I fight it — with the memories of happier times — sitting with my father at Burger King, eating a veggie whopper with onion rings, the countless evenings when he became a compass to my questions about politics and life and our family dinners, where we would eat breakfast, have huge disagreements and place countless cakes for so many birthday celebrations.
As one year dissolves into another, the grief becomes more pronounced. There are days I long to talk to my father, but I cannot pick up the phone or drive to our childhood home or do a single thing about it. The sadness of this realization has no place to go. But who wants to hear about how I miss my father, seven years after he has passed? Am I even allowed to say this out loud?
I am a pioneer navigating my grief. That doesn’t mean there aren’t good days. It isn’t fair to say because my father isn’t here anymore, I don’t feel joy or excitement or gratitude. I feel every one of those emotions. But it is not the high-glossy print variety of happiness, it is more of a matte version. When the sadness happens, it takes over. It pierces, sidelining the moment.
I keep quiet, though, I don’t say anything. I silently honor the melancholy.
Image: eggshell by Jonathan Cohen via Flickr.
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.
Oh, Rudri, such a raw and powerful post. I understand your grief having lost both of my parents. Feel free to speak about it as you never know who will benefit from you sharing. Hugs to you.
Rudri I feel this all so very much. I lost my Dad almost 7 years ago as well and so very often the pain is so raw and completely washes over me. It has changed me in ways I never could imagine. I too keep quiet but you sharing your feelings, your process, your words helps. Thank you for this. Big hugs xoxo
Allie,
I know you understand. The grief tends to come in unexpected moments and it often startles me – it is almost as if I am experiencing it for the first time. Hugs to you too, Allie. xo
I am sorry for your loss. Thank you for your kind words and comforting wishes. It means so much. xo
Thank you for sharing your feelings. I lost my father in August 2014, and so many of the similar memories still haunt me – the happy times, the conversations around the breakfast and dinner table, singing old Bollywood songs and birthdays. But, often times these happy memories are immediately masked by the thoughts of him in the hospital room, his funeral, the weight of his ashes, and the reality of him not being here. He was so young, and I am so young, and I feel so robbed. My mother and I describe these feelings like what losing a limb would feel like. Even now, there are moments where I think “I have to call Daddy and tell him this,” or “Only Daddy would understand,” and then I am forced back to reality and realize that I cannot say those things allowed. I honestly think I will never get over his absence – I will just learn to deal with it. And I feel that is perfectly fine. But – I do know this – you are allowed to feel the way you do. Those that love you want to hear how much your father meant to you, and how much you miss him.
Lakshmi,
I am so sorry for your loss. I know it is often painful to revisit those memories, but your willingness to share the loss of your father and how it impacts you, made me feel less alone. I loved your insight and your last line resonated with me in a deep way. Thank you so much.
Dear Rudri, Seven years is but seconds in grief. Speak your grief, cry, scream, write your grief. Tell your stories for they are a beautiful witness to the bond and love between a parent and a child. My dad died when I was very young and my mom has been gone for over 20 years, I miss them still. Wishing you some gentle moments today.
Oh, Terri. Thanks for your voice and letting me know that I don’t need permission from anyone to grieve. My condolences to you on your loss. xo
I’m so sorry Rudri. But writing about his passing and your grief is a testament to your love and memory of him.
Writing about him is remembering, isn’t it? Thanks, Estelle, for your kind words. xo
Beautiful post very honest I could feel the emotions as I read. Blessings to you and yours.
Thank you, Mari. I appreciate it.
Silently honor. I love that so much. I wish I did that more.
I love the imagery of the desert flowers in March, by the way.
Tamara,
Sometimes silently honoring our loved ones is soothing and provides a temporary relief to our grief. Wishing you more of those moments. xo
You are allowed to say anything you need, and you are allowed to let the tears flow. Grief is personal; no one can judge. Hugs to you, Rudri.
Susan,
I adore the empowerment of your words and message. You are absolutely right – no one can judge. Thank you. xo
God,there is flood of emotions in my mind and heart. it’s not even a year since I lost my dad.just loved your post,and and yes sometimes it nice to be quiet and let the tears roll….
Thank you, Auntie. I am so sorry for your loss. Sending hugs and light. xo
Grief. Sorrow. Loss. Love. They are all real and important and we grow and learn from expressing them. “I cannot forget the imagery of my life.” Nor can I. Nor, I think, should we – they are the tapestry that make up our soul.
Each of these emotions are intertwined and weave together the spaces between our moments. They are undeniable and unforgettable. As it should be. xo
I loved the way u expressed yourself. Grief is a very personal emotion. Loosing my husband for twelve years now, I am no where close to being normal. At times all good things gives u a subtle sense of pleasure that are also surrounded by that great loss, that doesn’t heal. Nature brings some comfort to me!!
So sorry for your loss!
Seema,
Thanks so much for adding your thoughts to this difficult subject. I am so sorry for your loss and I think you are exactly right, those who experience these holes know they can never return to the normal they once knew. The sadness is a shadow, I suspect for most of us. Sending hugs. xo
Oh, Rudri. Yes. I know this. You’re not alone in your silent grief. I wonder, how many of us walk along the sidewalks of life, maybe even bumping into each other, not knowing the grief that pulses just beneath the surface. I think you can say it, certainly you can feel it, you do, I do, so many of us do. It is a hard thing to share, and I know I often hold it close, not wanting to be repetitive, or annoying. But maybe that’s what grief friends are for. I just listened to a great podcast on What’s Your Grief about “grief friends” and I realized, yes, that IS a thing, and maybe I need more of them in my life, especially during milestone moments. Just know, I’d be yours anytime. xo
Dana,
I love the imagery of people intersecting with one another and not knowing the burdens they carry inside. I suspect many of us do this and it is applicable to a range of emotions. But I think sharing sadness or other feelings must be divulged to the right people, as all of us don’t always understand a particular perspective because our individual experiences are different.
I am honored at your offer to be a grief friend to me. It means so much. Thank you. xo
Dear Rudri, please do continue to speak your grief aloud whenever it feels right for you to do so. I want to hear. Your readers want to hear. It helps us all to be less alone. And perhaps, as I reflect upon it, there is a place for both, the silence and the speaking. This was such a beautiful, honest, raw post, and I feel blessed to have read it today. Thank you again.
Thanks for your comforting words, Monisha. You are right, I need to make peace with the silence and the speaking. By penning this particular piece, I already feel less alone. xo
My dearest Rudri, yes, you should speak out loud and share your grief. I stand with you to honor our grief. You are not alone and you never will be. Xoxo
Beautifully penned.
Ayala,
Thanks for your sweet sentiment. I know you understand. Thank you for always supporting me. xo
So beautiful and yes you’re always aloud to grieve and miss your father and definitely should. It’s something that stays with you I’m sure. Have you ever experienced personal grief before your father’s passing? I ask because I haven’t in my life yet and am sure I will be greatly affected by it. There are people in my life I am close to losing but haven’t lost yet and that is hard enough for me to talk about and/or admit. Take Care Rudri and hope you’re doing well this difficult month -Iva
You ask an important question – I was very close to my maternal grandmother and mourned her loss for years. The grief almost always startle when it appears, not matter how much time has passed. I think that is the hardest part about it. Thank you for your insight and well wishes, Iva.
Rudri, thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings about the loss of your beloved father. I have not been able to put into words the hole that my mother’s death 24 years ago has left in my life but feel less alone after reading your essay. I embrace your sentiments and send you love.
Thanks, Suzanne. You mentioned the key in trying to navigate the subterfuge of grief – trying to feel less alone. Sending hugs. xo
I hope you never have to feel that you cannot grieve. But perhaps silent grief is how you grieve and we all have our own ways, don’t we? Grief never leaves us. As I wrote before, it’s never a destination but the road, the pavement we tread each day. There are days when it’s background and we hardly notice that pavement we walk on and it’s just drowned by the busy world that envelops us. But there are days when it’s all there is and it’s all we see and feel against every step. My prayer for you is that you never feel alone in whatever your heart feels, Rudri. HUGS to you……xoxo
Joy,
I think that we must embrace whatever emotions simmer to the top. As you aptly stated, sometimes the grief screams and in other moments it fades, but accepting this dichotomy is the healthiest way to approach it. Thank you for your insight. xo
Through all of this, the thing that comes through so clearly is how very, very loved you were and how loved your father was/is. I’m only sorry that it is still so painful and catches you so sharply. But perhaps that is even, in its way, needful. Love to you.
Oh, Dakota, I love the way you articulated your insight. It offered me a much needed perspective. Thank you so much. xoxo