I walk across the pavement, while I watch the green hummingbird flitting its wings, moving in no discernible rhythm. The second it lands in one place, it seeks refuge elsewhere. My eyes fail to follow the hummingbird’s trek across the desert. Instead I keep moving, admiring the pink flower sprouting from the cacti, the leaves fanned out on the sidewalk and the sun’s rays extending its stretch.
The arrival of spring is hard to deny, but it also means the landing of another moment.
March 22 marks eight years since I lost my father. Even typing this single sentence pushes me to move my fingers away from the keys. What if I hit backspace and delete every word? It may disappear from the screen, but the fact still remains. I am still fatherless. But who do I tell? And who wants to listen? Grief continues to baffle – I’ve failed to solve life’s ultimate Rubik’s cube. I recognize the order I seek. But my feeble attempts to align my emotions in one definitive direction doesn’t work. So, I continue to shuffle the squares, trying different combinations, giving up and then trying to solve the undercurrent of what it means to excavate grief. To sit in it. To say aloud, “Oh my gosh, he is gone.” Would you believe that sometimes I don’t believe he’s not here? Perhaps it is denial or an undying hope for a different outcome.
Then, I focused on the physical aspect of grief, letting the tears fall without measure. I’d hide in the bathroom to mask my sadness from others because this kind of melancholy is one I didn’t have the capacity to put in words. How do I explain what I didn’t understand myself? Then, life became living without my father, learning to navigate early motherhood, transitioning out of a legal career, moving to a different state and losing the pieces of scaffolding that offered a sense of place and belonging. With these transitions, I carried grief in silence, in noise, in joy, in sadness, in the midst of the carpool drop-off, and in the quiet of early morning.
Grief wouldn’t forgive me. No matter how much I begged, it remained. Then, I fought it. I’d say, “Get over it. Move past it and keep it to yourself.” I tried this method and outward appearances indicated I’d managed to push the grief down like the puppet in the jack-in-the-box, but this only meant, the sadness popped out without notice, surprising me, even though it always lingered in the background. I paid less attention to honoring the goodness and asked all the wrong questions, running into metaphorical walls, like a young child navigating a maze with no exit. Then, I didn’t understand. Then, I was a little girl mourning her father. Then, I realized, I moved from little girl to an adult within a single second.
Now, I don’t ask grief a single question. I accept it. Now, I welcome how my father’s death shifted the entire trajectory of my life. Now, I understand the lessons with a clarity I didn’t recognize before. Now, I understand the risks he took as a young man, embarking to a new continent with less than seven dollars in his pocket. Now, I recognize his lessons – sitting with uncomfortable feelings even if it meant not finding an immediate solution, finishing endeavors, and working hard with a focused perseverance. Now, I understand all the little things – why he brought home donuts every single Sunday, why we went to Braum’s as a family and why he insisted that we always had dinner together.
Then, I didn’t know the lessons. Now, I understand, but can’t convey my gratitude to him.
Grief, then and grief, now – one constant remains – I miss him.
The restlessness of this thought will likely never disappear and like the hummingbird, I’ll keep darting from one place to another.
Image: Hummingbird by M. Shattock 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.
I’m so sorry, Rudri. It seems like a lot of years, but years don’t mean anything when it comes to special memories. What I hadn’t quite processed was how soon it was after your father’s passing that we met!
Thanks, Luanne. Yes, we moved here the same year I lost my father. I still have a hard time believing all the events that transpired in 2009.
Rudri, your words touched me so. Every single thought. So eloquently you have captured what it is to lose a parent and the grief that never truly goes away. You honor your feelings and your father’s memory. I lost my mother several years ago and I miss her with each day. It has been almost a year since my father suddenly passed away. It feels like yesterday. I want, like you, to convey my gratitude to them both. I think you do know the lessons and your writing is proof. You share so much with others and this is the lesson. Big hugs to you today and beyond. Thank you for sharing your words. xo
I am sorry for your losses, Carilyn. I know all too well the “it feels like yesterday feeling.” The tempo of grief is unpredictable.
I am grateful that my words provided comfort. Thanks for letting me know. xo
Grief is that constant, isn’t it? Or love is, because without it, grief would be different. I feel like it was JUST seven years ago, so time is too fast and I have “known” you for awhile!
Thinking of you today.
I love how you say love is constant. This is true as well. Sometimes amidst my grief, I let that emotion move to periphery. Thanks for these words, Tamara. I appreciate it. xo
Your post is such a powerful one. And, timely for me. Six months ago today I helped preside over and preached at my dear husband’s funeral. The sorrow I feel today is so much different than that of six months ago, or even this past January. But, it’s sorrow nonetheless. And, I am coming to realize that sorrow is now — and will forever be – part of who I am. It fills me; I can find no way to express what that means, and most of the time I do not even try. One of the things that strengthens me, however, is knowing others have, and do, endure, the sorrow and the love that powers it a testament to the best of what it is to be human. Thank you for your words. They were just what I needed today.
Janet,
I am so sorry for your loss. I don’t apologize for my melancholy – I embrace it and sit in my uncomfortable feelings. It isn’t always easy, but it’s essential for my well being to acknowledge the sorrow.
I am grateful my words provided a balm. Thank you for letting me know. xo
Rudri, I am thinking of you my friend. What a beautiful piece you wrote, your father is watching and he is proud. He will live in your heart and in your words forever. Xoxo
Thank you, Ayala. I know you understand. xo
Rudri, this was such a heartfelt moving piece and I know anyone who has experienced a loss of someone so close will relate.
Thank you, Nina. xo
Oh, yes, Rudri, I know and share the unbelievability of such a deep loss. The hardest part for me, nearly 10 years in, is not being able to say thank you, or, now I get it. Which is perhaps why these lines in particular resonated: “Then, I didn’t know the lessons. Now, I understand, but can’t convey my gratitude to him.” I also find I’m learning new lessons. Are you? This is a kind of balm for me, to feel like I’m still discovering, still in a kind of relationship, albeit more one-sided than I’d prefer. Sending you much love and empathy. xo
Dana,
Yes, I’ve learned so much after my father’s passing – I can’t think about it too long because the magnitude of what I can’t say to him haunts me. Thanks for your loving-kindness, Dana. I appreciate it. xo