Dad’s been gone 18 years now. He died young and suddenly and he was very much beloved. He lived a life of presence and joy and humor; he taught me how to enjoy my moments! I never know when I will be inspired to joy or sorrow, mirth or heartache, by his legacy. This short piece bubbled up in me about a month ago. I’m sharing it today, on his birthday.
There were some things I thought had died with my father but I was wrong.
I thought he had taken all the joy with him, sucked it up to the heavens, leaving just that shell of a body on the table in the morgue. I stared, gape-mouthed at him there; I could make no sense of how this empty husk ever housed so much vibrant and ecstatic life.
I wandered for months after he died, barely touching life. Dressing. Eating. Sleeping. I watched the snow pile up on the sidewalks and wondered listlessly if it would stay or go. When tiny hard buds appeared on the frigid branches, they seemed a curious artifact of a life I’d once heard tell of.
But by the time the buds unwrapped their green promise and the morning began with yellow warmth instead of gray chill, my body began to remember the rhythm, half buried still, that beat out, day and night, week and month, holy and sacred and merciful, a rhythm that refused to lay low.