It’s been three weeks since Dad died. I’m getting used to the idea.
But not really.
Maybe that’s the catch. I don’t actually want to be less sad about losing my father. It feels right to me that I’ll be sad not to have him around until I die and we’re together again. I hope I’ll get more used to the sadness–that it will become more familiar–but I don’t want it to go away. I don’t want to CLOSE this part of my heart and my life.
I brought home a huge stack of Dad’s CDs. He loved music–had an incredible record collection at one point–and many of my memories include his favorite soundtracks playing in the background. The last time I spoke to him, I could hear Andy Williams singing “Can’t Get Used to Losing You” on the CD player.
Over the weekend I remembered that I’d been meaning to order a Tex Ritter CD for him. Except I can’t now. I was going to record him telling some of his stories. Too late. I heard a news clip about politics in WV and I thought I’d mention it. Nope.
I remember moments I haven’t thought about in years. I think of things I’d like to say. I plan what we’ll do next time I’m in town . . .
And I’m glad. I’m glad he’s still so much with me that I forget he’s not. I hope if I live to be 90 I’ll still have moments when I think about giving my dad a hug . . . about telling him what’s going on in my life . . . about that question I’ve been meaning to ask.
I’m realizing that I don’t really want closure–whatever that is. What I want is to love and be loved now matter which side of the heavenly veil each of us is on.
I looked up the opposite of closure and Merriam-Webster said that would be continuation. Sounds right to me.