It’s been one year this week. November 22 will always be one of the darkest days in my life, possibly the darkest, when the brightest light in my life went out. My dad.
I didn’t know it then, and I have not known it since, but it came to me recently: last year, on November 22, it was like I was on a train headed to ... the rest of my life. And all of sudden, the train stopped. Cold and irreparable stop and the lights went completely out. To this day, I am waiting for someone to restart that train and to turn on the lights. Since then, I have been lost, feeling shakingly in the dark: somewhat aware of what is around me, but not aware enough to know where we’re headed when the lights will come on. Because I do have to hope that the lights will come on. One day...
Since that day, I’ve felt like I am losing him every day, just a little bit more ... All the online calls with mom where he was not there anymore; every single one of them sadder and more empty than the one the day before; we lost him again when we sold his car; and then again, when we had to put his dog down. We lost him again when we gave away his clothes and little by little small mementos of his like a cognac glass he loved that went to his best friend who wanted it to remember him by.
I feel like I lose him a little bit more with every Creedence and every Beatles song that plays every time I walk into a place ... Every time I look in the mirror and I see his eyebrows on me or his nose ... Every time I wear one of the many pieces of jewelry he gave me, or one of his turtle necks ... Every day when he smiles at me from a picture frame ... I feel him drifting further and further away ...
With every one of these actions, with every holiday that he’s been missing, with every birthday he didn't help organize, we’ve been losing him more and more, still ... Every one of these events felt like a scab you get to pick on. Every. Day. And every day it bleeds and gets deeper. And it never heals ...
I have worn my mourning clothes for a year and the day is approaching when I will probably slowly go back to wearing colors. It’s like the time is up for me to mourn or something?! As if that were possible ... I hear mom saying “mourning is in your heart.” And my mourning for him will be. Forever ... You can never truly bury away your love. You can never fit that in-between the four boards, as they say ...
They’ll tell you everything has an end, even the bad stuff, even deep and desperate loss. But how do you put a time limit on pain? How do you put a time limit on grief? Just like love - when do you call it done? When do you move on? Truly ...
I am not less sad today than I was a year ago. If anything, I probably am more sad, because now I have some knowledge and some perspective of what it means to live every day without him on this side of the earth. The day he died, the sheer shock and surprise of it, the thousand errands and things that had to be put in place kept me busy enough to numb my pain. But now, pain has had a year of incubation and it’s now in full force ...
Every day, still, I learn what it means to live without him. Without the weekly call every Sunday, without having someone to call and ask a detail about a recipe, or how to manage my orchids ... Without someone to truly make me laugh ... Without someone to assure me that every day is a gift worth getting up for and every action is worth everything to leave something behind to be remembered by ...
Every day is another limping step towards this new person I am becoming - the version of myself without my guiding light, without my guiding beacon that was my dad ...
I have been asking for a sign from him lately. There have been decisions to be made about his things, about the way we mourn him, about how to support mom through it all. I don’t know whether I made the right choices. He is not here to tell me ... So, I have been asking for a sign on this first anniversary.
One thing I know for sure: dad was a man of action. He was not a waiting man. He was not patient, except in his love for us. He would not have left that train stuck in that dark station for more than was necessary to refill a tank. He would have kept going. And living. And if there was one thing he left behind was an example of a life well-chosen and well-lived. It might not have been a life approved by many, but it was approved by him and that was enough. That was what mattered, in the end.
I felt like I knew my dad like I know my own soul, and I know his favorite band was unequivocally The Beatles. He talked the most about John (first) and Paul (second), but I never knew (nor asked) which was his favorite Beatle. However, the other day, I walked into this pub and this song came on which I took as my sign. He loved this song and I can still see him close his eyes and swaying in the rhythm. I clearly can hear him sing “doo-doo-doo-doo ...”
I have a sneaking suspicion that at least on this one, he would have agreed with George. I took it as his way to send me a nod from beyond on what next might look like ....
Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely winter
Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here
(...)
Little darlin', the smile's returning to their faces
Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been here
(...)
Little darlin', I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-doo
Here comes the sun, and I say
It's alright ... (George Harrison - The Beatles)
We do as we can with the signs we are given ... After a time, I might start believing this advice myself, and there is no authority to put a time limit on that ...
Back when I was his “little darling” and he was my favorite Beatle. RIP, my sweet love!
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