On March 14, 2020 I had a ticket to fly from the west coast to the east, but then … Covid.
I wrote, a week before scheduled to fly across the country, “from the west coast to the east, from one home to another, my mind begins to prepare for the sights, smells and sounds that will, in all probability, trigger the emotions of grief when I arrive.”
It was to be my first time back, in my province of origin, in the home of my childhood, with the people whom I shared the beginning of life … after the death of my dad in the fall of 2019.
Firsts, after the death of a loved one, can be triggers of grief that still lingers in the heart and mind. They can awaken a loneliness for that individual, as well as for who you were with them … for not only are they gone, but so is the part of you that was loved, adored uniquely by them.
So when I recently boarded the plane headed in the direction of my life’s beginnings, as I returned to my childhood home and family … I was so very aware that there would be one missing from that reunion.
There was a great part of me
that feared
that the weight of his absence
would be crushing …
but it wasn’t.
Though he is no longer there,
no lingering hugs that speak the words of the heart,
no squinty eye smiles from eyes so blue,
no fresh biscuits from the oven,
no information about houses for sale in their area (hints to move ‘back home’)
… he lives on.
I felt his life as my brother offered to drive me from the airport, the long way, so I could see the sights (and as he cringed when I shut the car door too hard).
I felt his life in the lingering embrace of my other brother, surprised to see me standing in his driveway (and in his use of ‘huh’ when he didn’t hear what was said the first time).
I saw his life in my nephews eyes, shining bright.
I heard his life in my niece, as she greeted me with warmth and unhindered excitement.
I felt his life in the stories my mum shared … so many stories that speak of a life … not perfect at all, but a life well lived.
He lives on …
It is a bit disturbing to admit that it wasn’t crushing to return …
but he wasn’t absent, he wasn’t missing.
The best of who he was still is …
it exists in pieces,
shared by each of us.
The seeds of his life have been planted in us and they keep growing,
for he lives on … on both coasts.
One day, while there, I was walking around the streets of the neighborhood of my parent’s home with their dog. A man, walking toward me, said, “is that Daisy?” I nodded and introduced myself. In very basic language, he went on to tell me that he and my dad spoke often. That he was a nice man. That he missed my dad. I told him I miss him too. We walked and talked a bit more … his simple expressions of remembrance of my dad filled my heart … he’s still here, in Bill too.
There was no grief in this visit for me. Only memories of a good life and evidence that the seeds he planted continue to grow.
itsawonderfilledlife 