It’s an odd, thing, this process of grief. I was prepared to miss my father – and I have. Sometimes it’s a painful hole; others, it’s the quiet understanding that I am a little more alone in the world than I was when he was was here. But there are these odd moments when it still hits completely out of the blue, and the grief hits like a sledgehammer. The tears come without notice – and without the ability to stop them. I wasn’t really prepared for that.
I was recently on a crowded flight watching what is a light-hearted, fun story of a family in the eighties. It’s more about the laughs – and the bad fashion and hairstyles – than about anything of real depth. So it took me quite by surprise when a scene at the end of a recent episode caused me to burst into tears – while passengers nearby looked at me with a mixture of discomfort, annoyance and pity.
Maybe it was knowing that there isn’t a father there anymore to come rescue me. I don’t really know. There are days that the ache for what will never be again is a constant companion, and then there are times that I do ok – only to be surprised by how close to the surface the sorrow still is. All I know is that through it all, I am so grateful to have had a father worth grieving over his loss. That is the real gift in all of this – the understanding that his was a precious presence in my life, and his influence will carry on with me long after my last goodbye.