My father died March 21, 2020. He had celebrated his 90th birthday in February, and was ready to go. While he knew he was loved by his family, I live 800 miles away. With the country starting on lock down, and borders being closed, the idea of driving from my home in Massachusetts to my parents in Michigan was becoming a nightmare. If we even made the 12 hour trip through Canada, where the borders were closing, or 14 hours around the lakes, we didn’t know if there would be restaurants or gas stations open for us on the way. Since my parents had just moved into an apartment on March 3, I didn’t even have somewhere to stay if I actually made it there. So I live streamed the funeral with my family here. Staring at the bench my father teased his mother-in-law about all my life. It was like he made sure I would smile thinking of him. He knew I was there.
While I know in my head he is gone, the reality of seeing a coffin and watching it lower into the ground, and then the worst sound in the entire world – that of dirt hitting a coffin – are missing for me. It was three days after the funeral when I finally had a visit from my dad in my dreams. He was letting me know it was ok that I didn’t come, because I still needed to hear that.
My dad’s good opinion of me was everything. The last three times I saw him we both made sure that we knew that we loved each other and that nothing needed to be forgiven or explained. We had made that peace. I wanted to honor him in ways that reflected on our relationship. We had both loved Hemingway’s writing. Not only were we admirers of the clean clear sentence structure, but we both felt a connection to the writer. The summer camp my father helped build with his friend, the one that my dad sent his three daughters to, was next door to the property that Hemingway had. The Nick Adams stories were written about this place. The Horton Bay General Store is real, and we have been there. I read In Our Times in his honor. The stories I had loved so much, however, fell flat for me this reading. I did go back to our conversations about Sherwood Anderson, and it made me smile to think of our discussions on the stories that made up Winesburg Ohio. But I didn’t feel closer to him.
As time moved on, and I began to heal, my daily life and routines kept me going. I started to pick up more at work, and started reading more too. I ended up looking at my bookshelf, since we can’t go to the library, and a book called to me. Proof of Heaven by Eben Alexander. The true story of a neurosurgeon’s Near Death Experience. When I was reading about his experience, and the fact that the thing he learned was that we were all loved and we can’t do anything to make that stop, I sobbed. I thank my dad for reminding me that we had that love. No matter what. Nothing I do in this life will ever change that.
In the world of crisis we live in, send out the love. That is all that matters. That is the start and the end of it. Let go of all else. Connectedness matters. I was told today about an affirmation someone was given – you are enough. She passed it on for herself, but I hear it for me too. We are all enough.
The world is trying to remind me of the love I am missing. I will do my best to honor you all the rest of my days. I love you daddy.
The Source 4 Books 