Words from a Mourning Daughter

I was 26 when my dad died. 
He told my baby brother that he already had all the information he would ever need to make
the big decisions about his own life.
Our last conversation was brief. He told me to
be safe.
and he thanked me.
That was four days before he pass in the hospital
where I was born.
I was there for that too.
I was going away on a trip, afraid to leave home,
fearful it would be the last time I would see him.
Before I left, when
he was too weak, too tired.
He looked at me, smiled, and kissed me
three times.
That would be the last triple kiss I’d ever get from him;
his signature way of showing affection.

It’s a hard thing, losing a father
after they’ve been sick for so long.
You feel relieved
melancholic
peaceful
devastated
calm
grateful that they’re out of pain, grateful to have your life back
but wrecked to have it back without them in it.

I cry for my father because he cried for me. He cried for everyone.
He was a gentle man
more concerned with protecting me from regrets, and
pent up feelings
than from boys, drugs or alcohol.
He cried for our graduations, prom, and college tours
He cried for little jackie paper; envisioning himself
He cried for the trees when they’d get taken down
He cried for the sad stories of the people he did not know
almost as much as he cried for the joyful.

My father was in awe of the world he lived in
often reflecting on our collective responsibility to take care of it
and take care he did.
He did everything he could do without devoting his entire life to a cause
It set a good example for how to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders
while recognizing that the weight does not fall solely on you.

He used and recycled everything
from tupperware to dance moves of rags of his old clothes.
He ran every blood drive he possibly could. I didn’t understand it as a kid.
Now that he’s gone, I couldn’t be more grateful for that work that he did. I’m sure the families of those
his work likely saved are grateful, too.
He took it upon himself to call every lawmaker he’d ever
voted for, from school board member to
the president of the united states.
They had to earn his vote again; they had to do
some good in the world we lived in.
He chuckled when he got thank you letters for his outreach from
Joe Biden.
He knew some 21-year old staff wrote it. He appreciated it
either way.

My dad always told me to analyze my dreams.
He told me that that’s where some of our deepest feelings sat; that understanding his dreams
helped him understand the world; helped him
understand himself.
He asked me about my dreams a lot in the last year or so of his life.
I remember the hardest period of his cancer treatment; the few months where steroids intended to make him feel good
also made him erratic, aggressive and manic.
He needed constant attention to ensure he didn’t make any
life altering decisions or mistakes
He felt like he was on top of the world; he felt like we were
bringing him down.
I felt like I was drowning.
I had a dream one night that our home was being attacked by
flaming asteroids. It was one of the scariest dreams I’d ever had.
This was either right before he called the police on him self,
or days after; I don’t remember.
But he was curious about this dream, convinced there was
more to it than even I realized. He started
writing it down, only to realize that when you break up the word
asteroid
you get a steroid.
And in that moment, it dawned on him that the asteroids that were
destroying the lives of my mother and I were him and the steroid
reaction he was having.
It was then that he took it seriously. He starting
crying.
He had pain in his eyes. He was sorry he had
hurt us.
He didn’t know. He hadn’t understood.
It was my dreams that told him what he needed to know.

And now my dreams are telling me what he needs me to know.
A few nights in the last few weeks, I’ve had normal dreams
only to look through the crowd of extras and see my dad. He’s always alone, always sitting
and smiling, as though only he and I are aware that it’s a dream
and everyone else is oblivious.
Multiple times now he’s given me a wave from across the room in my head. And in those moments, the dream
pauses.
Nobody moves, except for him. Except for me.
He comes towards me, everyone around us still.
I’m scared to make contact with him; thinking that when I do, my arms are going go right through him
because he isn’t real. Because he’s gone.
And then every time, I’m shocked when I can feel him.
He hugs me, not saying a word.
Then he waves, walks away,
and the dream resumes.
He’s telling me he’s here. That I can find him wherever I go,
wherever I am.

I’m trying to start living more like the way he did.
Presently.
He was the type of person who, when invited on an adventures, said
yes.
I want to say yes more. Say yes to love, say yes to being open,
say yes to
crying in front of strangers, in front of my friends, and in front of
anyone who sees me.

I was 26 when my dad died.
But I didn’t lose my dad at 26. I won’t lose him 27, or 30, or 45 or 70.
I see him in the hundred year old trees in my neighborhood.
I feel him when I’m scared of heights and in the wind in my face when I’m cycling.
I hear him in Amy Winehouse, and the Chicks, and the rest of the
ridiculous playlist he made of his favorite songs for us to play at his
funeral;
A playlist he started years before he was diagnosed
and continued adding songs to up to a few months before he passed.
I smell him in the burnt food in my own kitchen, which I never used to overcook until he passed. Now, I can’t seem to cook it right.
Like father like daughter, I suppose.