I didn?t believe anyone when they told me that eventually, the grief would go away. ?That time would make things a little easier to bear, that I would one day be able to think about my dad without crying.
People said wise things and I knew they knew what they were talking about, but to me, this grief felt so raw and wrenching that at times, I was convinced it was an entirely new form of sadness that hadn?t been discovered before.
Over the past two years since Dad died, I?ve been turned inside out. ?Our entire family has changed, life has altered so radically that sometimes I feel like I?m walking around in another person?s skin.
The lodestone of our family?s life used to be my parents in their white frame house in a small town in western Nebraska. ?We gravitated to them in that place, we knew every inch of the house, every tree in the yard. We knew every line on our mother?s face, every turn of phrase from my dad?s plethora of stories. ?From the station they played on the radio to the position of Dad?s crossword books on the breakfast table, everything was a comfortable groove on an old record album that the needle picked up and played for us, over and over and over.
When dad got sick and went into the hospital, the magnetic force of their home and time and place exploded. ?We gravitated back, but in the middle of winter?we had, most of us, forgotten how it was to be back home when the trees were bare and the wood stoves having to be fed. ?We walked through the house without Dad?s loud voice or the cheerful banter between him and Mom. ?She was confused and frightened, and everything was in chaos.
The house changed: the siblings made improvements in anticipation of Dad returning home and then they were moved into an apartment. ?The stoves went cold, the electricity went off, the house went quiet. ?Boxes of history were strewn about, unsorted. ?The yard grew tangled, the magic of the house evaporated.
And then, he died. ?We returned for his funeral, to a town green and lush and strange and utterly alien without him. ?Old friends smiled and hugged us, relatives came together, and it all felt like a terrible movie. ?Why wasn?t Dad there to talk about this person or that, to fill in the blanks with a well-timed reminiscence of that man at the other side of the room? ?We gathered uneasily in the apartment, crowded together, everyone conscious of his absence.
As the months went by, there were more milestones placed between us and him: the sale of his rental properties, the headstone being placed on the grave, the disbursement of his musical instruments. ?Last September, we gathered to empty the old house for good, giving away old furniture and books, sorting through family treasures, dismantling the center core of our sibling experience and nailing boards over the windows.
To me, that weekend was the last chapter in my father?s death ? as long as the house stood there with his belongings inside, he wasn?t fully gone, but he was also not fully at rest. ?When I said goodbye to the house, it hit me that I was saying goodbye to the last piece of him that remained in a familiar location.
Two weeks ago, the old house was auctioned off. ?I thought I would be more saddened by this, but I was strangely numbed. ?The young man who bought it plans to try restoring the house, which makes me glad.
Over the last two weeks, I sorted through some old letters and photos of my dad, and found myself laughing. ?He was such a character, so intelligent, so infuriating, so funny. ?He lived life so fiercely, and as life goes on without him, I?m starting to see his absence as less of a tragedy and more of a space to enjoy his legacy without regret or rancor.
As I?ve healed from my grief, I?ve been marveling at the changes in my perception of my dad, myself, and our family. ?I?ve been struck by how much peace has descended over what was once chaotic, how much joy has grown from such sorrow. ?I can?t help thinking of it as the smoothness of scar tissue ? the love that has grown over the loss of him is a conspicuous spot of perfection in the midst of the rest of what we consider normal.
I didn?t believe you when you said the things you did ? that life would go on, that the hurt would go away, that I would one day forgive myself for what I had left undone and unsaid and simply love my dad and remember him with fondness. ?I didn?t believe you ? and I?m so glad I was wrong. ?It has been two years and it feels like a minute?and a lifetime.
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