I always hate to be the bearer of bad news.
I think of that often when I talk about grief, especially after being made an adult orphan at such a young age. Everyone hopes that time heals all wounds, but alas, the best metaphor I know of is that we grow around them, like a tree growing around a nail in its trunk. Our lives get longer, bigger, more complicated but the nail is there, rusting in the dark.
So it is I introduce this fact: Today marks 30 years since my father died, and I woke up crying.
Death anniversaries don’t rattle me too much anymore, not the way they did the first few years. Sometimes, though, they strike unexpectedly. I woke up crying because in the liminal state of dawning awareness, I thought he was alive. Just for a moment. A brief transient moment where I felt the way I did when he was still around and I had the naive faith he always would be.
That’s grief for ya’.
Yes, as a tree I’m pretty well grown at this point. I’m 56 and still figuring out how to “grow up” but I’ve done okay for myself, on balance.
It’s been 30 years, though, and it hardly feels like I’ve taken a full breath since. That nail is still there, pointy and old and familiar, every time I inhale.
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