Making Peace With Grief (and Guilt)
Yesterday, I felt my dad’s presence. I heard his gentle whistle. And I smelled a light waft of his cologne.
Can the brain conjure scent?
It was a soft breeze brushing against my arm, reminding me that I’ll be OK.
I envisioned him pushing his glasses up his nose with his wise, yet snarky stare as if to say … what are you waiting for?
That look. Fathers just know.
Death anniversaries are deeply heart and gut wrenching.
It’s been two years. Feels like yesterday.
I was relocating my life from D.C. to New Orleans, a city Dad knew I loved.
We’d all seen him on his 85th birthday — April 24, 2022 — unexpectedly. He was hospitalized. My stepmom sent out a group text telling us he was likely dying.
But Dad had a history of bouncing back.
Twenty years living with COPD. Twenty years of close calls. Either he wasn’t ready or God wasn’t. He always bounced back with tenacity, the stubborn Scotsman that he was.
But this time felt different.
I immediately booked a ticket to Illinois.
We spent his 85th birthday surrounding his small hospital bed. I’m still amazed how we crammed ourselves in…
