Sunday, December 04, 2011

Two Years

Today marks two years since my father died. Grief softens over time, although it never quite goes away. Last year, I thought of my father every day, and remembering filled me with great sadness. Now, memories of my father filter through other memories, through chinks in my days. Sometimes he visits me in dreams. Sometimes we watch old videos of him and my mother visiting: his voice mingles with those of my children, of others living, and it feels as if he is here, with us.

I feel him more than I did; letting go of the constant sadness opens me somehow to his presence.

Of course I write about my father; his living and dying inspired me in many ways, and still does. I think of these small pieces as offerings, as cairns to mark his existence and my memories...

--An interview about how grief and anger led me to write NUMBER 72 and I SHOULD NOT HAVE RUSHED YOU THROUGH THE RAIN up at Connotation Press

--Letting go where my father loved best, the Outer Banks...THE BLUES ARE RUNNING

--Shared grief: a man and a squirrel: STONE

--A small poem, THE LAST TRIP, nominated as a Best of the Net by Camroc Press Review

I write to remember. I write to process my emotions. I write to share you with the world.

Dad, the day is breaking the dark now, a gentle fog shrouds our yard, but already I can tell the day will be clear and blue and full of sun. Today I will keep you in my heart, and mom, too. Peace...


  1. wow, it doesn't seem like two years could have passed. you have come up with so many beautiful things in that period. your second-to-last paragraph here says it all, i guess.


  2. I read this beautiful tribute to my husband whose eyes welled with tears. "That was nice," he said. And I agree. Hugs to you, dear Linda.

  3. After my own father died, now at seven years distance, I found his voice coming out in my own, some of his gestures in my own, even tone and inflection.

    A friend of mine described how, after her own father died, it was as if many doors opened in her through which he came.

    That was my experience.

    Your experience of grief softening and letting go of a constant sadness mirrors my own.

    Rest in the fact that your father is yet present to you.

    Peace to you.

  4. There is no mistaking the emotion when you write about your father. Hugs to you, and may he always inspire.

  5. Though this can always hurt, Linda, I hope you are feeling greater peace with it now. I can't imagine the man you wrote about would want it another way.

  6. I found the second year almost as hard as the first, because I was supposed to be moving on, but I just had this overall melancholy mood about everything.

    How does the rest of the world, those who aren't writers, deal with death? It was a savior for me, and I can see with you too. Thank you for sharing your personal world with us.
    Blessed be to you.