Your father, once at the
center of your universe, is inescapably a part of you even after he’s gone. When your father dies. Let the phrase settle for a moment.
What words do you hear next? For anyone whose father has
died, finishing the sentence is apt to be easier than reciting the alphabet.
"When your father dies" is the opening phrase
of one of my favorite poems, "Shifting the Sun," and it came to mind
recently after a colleague's father died, just before Father's Day.
It begins: When your father dies, say the Irish
You lose your
umbrella against bad weather.
When your
father dies, say the Russians
He takes
your childhood with him.
When your
father dies, it doesn't matter that other people's fathers have died, that
fathers have been dying since human time was born. What matters in the moment
of his death is that he was your father. Your one and only. Your loss is
unique, profound, yours alone.
When your
father dies, people say many things to you, much of it the same thing. Sorry
for your loss. Condolences. May he rest in peace. You will not remember words.
You will remember kindness.
When your
father dies, if you weren't there with him, you will carry that knowledge
forever like a permanent hole in your pocket. You will get used to it, but
you'll always know it's there.
When your
father dies, even if you were with him, you will think of all the things you
meant to say, to ask, things you may have said and asked a million times but
you'll want to say them just once more.
Thank you. Sorry. Why? What? When? Who exactly are
you?
When
your father dies, you will remember that time, maybe more than one, that he
made you so mad. When your father dies,
you will worry about your mother, who, you are likely to learn, is more
resilient than you gave her credit for. This assumes she's the one left behind,
as mothers so often are.
And
when your father's gone, you'll see your mother from a different angle. You'll
see more clearly how your father helped her, hurt her, made her less and more
than she would have been without him. You will see more clearly her power over
him.
When
your father dies, the small particulars of his life, the kind you barely
noticed when he was alive, grow into revelations.
The
smell of his aftershave. The style of his boxer shorts. How neatly he arranged
his loose change on his bureau before he said his prayers at night. When your father dies, even if he was grand,
you realize how small he was, how human.
When
your father dies, you will become more intrigued by the life he built from the
childhood he was given.
When
your father dies, you have to adjust your place in the world, in your family,
your sense of who you are performing for. You wonder if you can. You can.
When
your father dies, you discover how others — say, your brothers and sisters —
saw him differently.
When
your father dies, you start to know him better. "Oh," you think, a
long time later, "now I get it."
When your father dies, you take to noticing how much you're like him.
It's not all good, but it's how you keep him with you.
When
your father dies, you wonder what he would be like if he'd lived longer, what
he would think if he could see you now. You hope he would be proud.
When
your father dies, you will grieve and then, one day you'll notice your grief
has dried up. You may spend weeks with no conscious thought of the man who was
once at the center of your universe. You will be relieved and your relief may
feel like betrayal.
But
every now and then, when the sky is a particular shade of blue, or you spot a
man with a familiar build on the street, or you hear the chatter of a ballgame
on the radio, you will feel a knot in your chest, and to no one in particular,
you'll say, "Dad."
