Remembrance.

This morning, I woke up expecting a gray kind of day. My body and heart were ready for it. I expected to be awake this morning and dressed in all black. I expected to spend the hours in a state of despair and mourning. I anticipated eyes red from crying and a voice husky from the sobs that would spill ceaselessly from my lips. Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 70 today. I expected pain to shroud my soul in its cold, comforting embrace.

But as I opened my eyes this morning, the calm blue quiet of the early dawn sky washed over the bed and no tears came. I waited for a while but nothing happened. I thought at first that my heart had betrayed me, that I had forgotten how to remember my father. That was not so. The memories that came forth were soft and gentle. They were of my father's voice. His nicknames for me bubbling from his throat. His laugh, pure thunder and sea; loud and calming. I remember him, tall as a tree, uprooting himself from where he was sitting and towering over us, smiling down at us. Dancing. I remember him in gentle waves. Like the ocean. Like the sea that has guided those remembrances into my heart and have sheltered them there. The tears are only falling now as I write this, but at that moment, as I lay in bed I felt only peace. I spoke to him and told him that I missed him. I wished him peace where he was. I imagined a reincarnated version of this man I loved, now over a decade gone from this world, as an 11 year old boy running and jumping in long strides like a mirror of the soul of his past life.

I imagined my father as a flower or a tree; as a bird or a lion. I imagined him living lives that freed him from the pain of his past. And I wished him once more, a gentle goodbye.

I'm tempted to envision him as he would have been now if he had lived. A tall 70 year old man with a vibrant laugh and a playful spark in his eyes. Would he have walked with a cane? Somehow I couldn't imagine that. I'd see him in dress shoes and dress pants (He never wore jeans) quick to dance to the songs of his country that played endlessly in the house. I imagined him still, after all this time, inviting me to dance with him. As a teen I always declined, embarrassed of  my own body and awkwardness. But in this fantasy, I would accept. And we would dance. And we would laugh. 

But thoughts like those always lead to longing. And then to grief. So I store them away, perhaps for another day when I feel stronger. Or perhaps just to keep with me. I note his absence and I listen to the beat of my heart. I hear his voice speaking in my ear and I choose, for another day to get up. This morning is beautiful. I will not mourn by his graveside. I will not wear black. I will live this day in remembrance and laugh without guilt. I love you dad. And as always, I miss you. Today, for you, I'll smile. Happy birthday. 

Dad.

Today marks ten years since my father's passing.

It's such a strange thing, remembering the moment my world shattered. It was already fragile enough and his death just pushed it past the edge. It amplified my loneliness, my neediness, my desire to be cut off from the world. I wanted comfort and nothing. My life was, at that moment, a series of chaotic dichotomies. I did not know who I was or where I belonged anymore. All I knew was that he was gone and I was still here and the world was still spinning and it all felt very cruel to me. Like a joke gone horribly wrong. I mourned outwardly for years. Now I just mourn in my heart, in the dark when the world is silent and there's nothing else to think about other than the fact that he is gone.

I think about him everyday. I try to tell myself that I don't, but I do. It will come up as a reminder. Daddy. And then my mind will stir and recall his face and it will cast itself before me like a spell that endlessly repeats itself. I try to tell myself that as the years go by, I'm healing. But I'm not. The hole is still there and will always be. I've just learned to cover it with beautiful things, things that will camouflage how deeply it hurts to lose someone you love. I think that's why I seek out words. I think that's why I seek out the night. Both things are peaceful to me. It allows me to reflect and to cry without judgement.

There are certain things I remember about him, things that I will cling to my heart and never let go of. They are talismans that bound me to him, this man who has become only spirit. Meanwhile I'm trying to find my center again, my safety in such a spontaneous and unknown world. He left so suddenly and still…still there are remnants of him that I'm just now finding. It's like his death was an eruption and parts of him were tossed to different parts of my world, waiting to be found. I take those discoveries as a sign. A photo, a seashell, a song. Any of those. Everyone of those, are mine to reach to.

I want to believe that we are embodiments of light, that even as our shells disintegrate and merge with the earth, our light remains, indestructible. When I lay in the dark and recall his voice, I close my eyes and see sunshine. This is how I know he lived. This is how I know he loved me, this lonely child still grieving.