It has been 5 weeks and 5 days since my father passed away. April 7, 2017. It was so unexpected and so fast that it still does not seem real to me. Every day I wake up, in sweet innocence for a split second, thinking it was all just a bad dream. Then the heaviness in my heart reminds me, it is definitely reality. My dear, loving father, the rock solid man of integrity and honor and unconditional love in my life, is gone. And he is not coming back. I shall never get to hug him and feel the warmth of his return hug again. The twinkle in his hazel-green eyes will never shine on me again. The dry wit and humor of the million jokes he took the greatest pleasure in sharing with me has been silenced. And I feel adrift in an unsafe world.

Even in my darkest times, I knew I could find a safety net in my father. Just hearing his voice on the phone, or sitting on the front porch watching the traffic go by – not saying a word – could bring me back to safety. My father was magical that way. He taught me so much without having to say all that much.

Since he passed away, when I walk in my woods out back, breathing in the succulent scent of the pine trees, feeling the crunch of the pine needle carpet underfoot,  listening to the birds singing, I am reminded ever so poignantly, that the joy I find in these simple things is my dad’s doing. From the time I was a little, little girl, he taught me to appreciate and to feel deeply the beauty of the gifts of nature. From the running water of a stream to the crashing waves of the ocean, from the spring peepers chorus to the beauty in the changing leaves of fall, he taught me to find peace and solace in all of my surroundings. I always believed he was part Native American because his reverence for Mother Earth was such a deep part of him. And he took such joy in instilling that reverence and love in me.

My father was my biggest fan. He loved nothing more than to sit and listen to me practice the piano. And when I started writing my own music, he was so proud of me. He used to tell me that when he died, he wanted to be cremated and he wanted his ashes put into an urn on top of the piano so he could listen to me and my sisters play for eternity.  He most loved it when I sang “The Rose”. It was his favorite song and I sang it just for him.

It is the strangest feeling in the world not to be able to pick up the phone and call him. I have dreaded this for quite some time. After all, he was just shy of 94 years old, so I knew the time would come, sooner, rather than later. Still nothing prepares you for the words, “I am sorry. He’s gone.” Nothing prepares you for the knee-buckling grief that wraps itself around your entire life, and will be there for the rest of your life. Some days it’s worse than others. Some days, I can get through without crying. But grief is a funny thing. It will hit you up the side of the heart and head without warning, and spill from your eyes, down your cheeks when you least expect it.

There are eight of us grieving the loss of our father. And he loved each of us in his own way, for our own gifts and abilities. Then, there is the one, grieving the loss of her soul mate of over 70 years…my mother. She is the one he loved best of all. Murmuring in her ear each morning before he left for work. Looking to her for a kiss hello at the end of the day. Working together to raise a family with a depth of love and understanding that we all have felt. We have been so lucky.

Dad, my life has been blessed to have had you as my father. I am a grown woman now, but in my heart I shall always be your little girl, believing you hung the moon, stomped the grapes with your bare feet, and loved me more than it was humanly possible until the moment you died. And I feel your love every day, even though you are gone. I love you.