My Dad, One Year Later
People who have lost loved ones often say, “I think about him every day.” Before losing my father Eugene, I was skeptical. Was it possible to think of someone every day who wasn’t present, someone with whom communication or any other form of interaction never occurred?
I know now that it is possible. My daddy is in my thoughts every day, and many nights. As the calendar has crept toward late-summer, the time of year when Eugene came to live (and die) with me, he’s been in my dreams, an observant wraith who notes with approval (or not) whatever antics my subconscious concocts. Knowing there’s nothing more tiresome than hearing someone recount his nightly visions, I’ll refrain from details. The important thing is that he’s been with me, if only in imagination.
No one can say with certainty where the dead go, if anywhere. But many of us living have a vague sense that our beloved deceased are somehow with us, if not exactly among us. I don’t feel as though my daddy is watching over me, proud that in the past year I’ve made some difficult but ethical decisions. I don’t get the sense that every time I’ve screwed up or failed in the past twelve months my father has winced in disappointment. But I do know he — he being that amorphous notion we call the spirit — is present in my life.
I look at photographs of him every day. I think about him every day. I miss him every day. And not until I go one day soon will I maybe understand what’s become of him.