Grief / Loss / Love

It’s Been 8 Weeks

56 days since my father passed on.

My father was a big man whose presence left an indelible touch on many — even after a single meeting, because meeting him was never a simple exchange of words. For him, a new meeting was a new connection; an opportunity to learn the story of another human being, and an opportunity for him to share his story, which is to say, tell the story of his family and their incredible gifts.

When I think of my father the image that first comes to mind is the image he presented to the world during my youth: a man of decisive action. This was a man who’d as soon knock you down if you were a threat as lift you gently from the ground and heal your soul if you were a victim. He believed his duty was to protect those in need and heal those he could. He was loud, intelligent, and strong.

But as I’ve meditated on his absence these last few weeks a deeper memory has surfaced to the forefront. It’s dark and I’m in bed, I’m not sure how old I am, but likely no older than 3. In the twilit blues of the room around me a figure sits at my bedside. His hand caresses my head and rubs my back as he sings me softly, gently, to sleep. My father had a powerful, deep, baritone voice that could fill any space, but he could be soft as a whisper when the moment necessitated. This was one of many such moments.

My father was a human man — immensely capable and flawed. As I remember the affection he gave when he expressed his love to his family I see a reflection of that in myself. He taught me how to be vulnerable and he taught me how to demonstrate love with softness.

Thank you, papa.