It’s been six months since my father left this plane of existence — and five days since my mother joined him. Grief has compounded grief, and I feel the overwhelming weight of emptiness as I remember the last time they filled a hallway together.
A Celebration of Life
The world is burning and people are dying but we took this one day to celebrate life.
She’s lost a grandpa and a great uncle this year. She had her first year of preschool interrupted by the coronavirus. She hasn’t played with a friend in 10 weeks or hugged her high-risk grandma in 12. The last time she saw most of her cousins was at her grandfather’s funeral.
She’d been looking forward to a big party with friends and family for the first time in her short life, but she accepted the sad reality we’re in.
So when she asked for a unicorn birthday cake, you can bet I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. making the cake — and decorating for a party of 3 as though it was the party of her dreams.
Lonesome Dove Redux
The lone dove lost her mate a couple years ago — the image of her guarding his lifeless body is one I cannot shake (no matter how hard I try). She now hangs out with two others; sometimes they tolerate her. Others, they distance themselves whenever she approaches.
Moments before I took this photo, they were resting three in a row. But in the few seconds it took for me to retrieve my camera, the pair took one simultaneous shake of their wings and “hopped” one wire over, leaving the widow alone in their wake.
The Dying of the Light
It has been two months since my father took his last breath. Two months, and still the most innocuous of scenes can trigger a gut punch that renders me nauseous and exhausted, craving sleep to shut out the memories.
Yesterday some loose skin on my daughter’s dry lips had that very effect. I don’t think I will ever look at faces the way I did before.
And I appreciate the beauty of a sip of water more than ever, knowing that some day there might come a time when I want nothing more and yet: cannot swallow.
Does anyone ever truly go “gentle” into that good night? Years ago when I first read Dylan Thomas’ best-known poem — quite possibly in my father’s seventh grade English class — I thought the poet’s words were solely a command to his father.
But now, a little wiser and certainly more weary, I see the poem’s “rage” in an entirely new light.
Two months have passed. And I am seething.
Lost Between Worlds
This was my first trip to my hometown without a dad to visit (memorial services notwithstanding). It felt upside down and incomplete, like holding a glass to your lips and expecting one drink, but finding yourself instead tasting another. The two flavors — one a ghost, the other your reality — at odds between your brain and your tongue as you fight to understand: What tyranny is this?
