It's Just Love

 

I navigated this past year learning to function after losing pieces of myself. It happened all at once and a little bit at a time. How do you grieve someone who was just as much a part of you and your life as he wasn't? Early on I read, there is no gone without goodbye. I felt those words deep within my soul. He isn't really gone, he is just living his life without me in it. I had already learned to live my life that way, so it was comfortable. Easy, almost. Or was it?

Today, I read this as we finally laid my father's remain to rest.

I want to thank all of you for loving my father, Sue, and me enough to be here. Even if there were moments that the emotionally stoic teddy bear that was my father didn't outwardly show it, each of you meant something to him. 

These past four months have felt surreal. When someone we love dies, it seems like the world should stop or at least pause to give us time to process and catch our breath. Instead, everything feels like it is moving faster. I think it's safe to say that we can all agree grief sucks, but what I know to be true is without love, there is no grief. 

At Dad's service in February, I told you of the photo I've carried most of my life. It was my way of feeling connected to him. As a child, I would be in a crowd or visiting Dundalk and look for him. As an adult, when he was in and out of our life, I would do the same thing. Chris and I would be driving to a concert, and I would quietly comment, "I wonder if we will see my Dad tonight."

The first time we went to Dad's house after his death, we returned home with every square inch of our SUV packed. Once home, I immediately dove in, combing through his treasures. Even though I wasn't sure what I was looking for, I was on a mission. I found an album of my baby photos, with newspaper clippings about my life neatly folded and tucked behind pictures. I sorted through his vast record collection. I smiled when I found two Bonnaroo T-shirts among his multitude of concert tees. Jayde and I went through his box of hundreds of concert stubs. His ticket collection spanned fifty five years. In 1970 he paid $4.50 to see The Doors and $7.50 to see Led Zepplin. I found photos of his crazy moments with friends, concerts, including Live Aid, and a few pictures no daughter should ever see. Discouraged, and still unsure of what I expected to find, I took a break. When I resumed my treasure hunt a few days later, I found it. His wedding ring from when he was married to my mom. It means nothing to anyone, but to me, it's priceless.

Last spring while planting some flowers, I was having one of my marathon phone calls with Dad when three beautiful dragonflies visited me. Wanting to know my fascination with the dragonflies I told him this story.  

In the fall of 2013, my grandfather passed. Then the following spring, a big dragonfly joined our backyard habitat. It would fly circles around us, dancing and hovering, while its iridescent wings glittered in the sun. Two years later, Chris's Dad left us way too soon. The following spring, a second and more majestic dragonfly joined us. Sometimes, they were together. Other times, the large dragonfly would visit on its own. In 2018, knowing my Mommom's passing was imminent, I would watch the pair, wondering if we would soon have a trio. She passed the end of June, and by August, three gossamer winged creatures were hanging around.

 After I finished telling Dad the story of our dragonflies, he laughed and said, "That's so cool. When I'm gone, then you will have four." Not comfortable with his discussion of dying, I tucked that conversation away. 

Several weeks ago, I was on our deck when I noticed something small fluttering on the other side. As I approached, it flew nearer to me and hovered. Realizing it was a new dragonfly, I started to cry. He flew close for only a moment. Long enough for me to utter, "I miss you." Then he flew away.

Though we lay him to rest today, I think some part of me will always be looking for my Dad, and that isn't grief—it's just love.