Sitting in the church where I sat during the last few weeks of Dad’s life, I recalled the days of that sorrowful summer. I cried a lot then. It was an intentional outpouring of grief and sadness and gratitude all at once, a necessary part of mourning that I finally, after years of suppressing such emotions, allowed myself to feel and experience and inhabit. Somehow I understood that if I didn’t allow it out then, it would remain with me much longer, growing into an ache that might be dull, but would never dissipate. So I cried. In the church. Out on the street. In my car. Out in the backyard. In the shower. Wherever and whenever grief would rear its head, I would face it and acknowledge it and feel it, letting it wash over me, sometimes overwhelming me, and knowing that it was necessary. More than that, it was welcome – it made me realize that though Dad had gone, his love remained – how else to explain such intense feelings of loss and sadness?
Today, exactly two years after he died, I’m not forlorn or destroyed by it. I miss him, of course, but there is a sense of peace and beauty that I felt in his last weeks here that still remains. In so many ways, I still feel my father with me, and it has been a comfort making that happen and keeping him as part of my life.
When I’ve had a rough day at work, I feel him with me.
When I feel attacked by strangers or people I’ve known my entire life, I feel him with me.
When I feel elated and joyous and busting with excitement over something, I feel him with me.
When I talk to Mom or spend time with the family, I feel him with me.
When I sit down to my daily meditation, part of my mantra is still this: breathing in, I know am alive – breathing out, I know my Dad is alive within me.
Two years after he departed this world, I still feel him with me.
