My father died in the early hours of an otherwise ordinary, August day.
As his body lay still, no longer hostage to late summer stickiness or mosquito whine, I was three states and a thousand thoughts and moments away. As the last thread binding him to me, to us, to this place and time finally tore free, I was stumbling to my son’s bedroom. My ten-month old was standing at attention, awake. Alert. I must have comforted him, laid him down and smoothed his hair, damp with the sweet sweat of baby dreams. Surely I shushed him, stroking my finger down the length of his nose before falling back into the expanse of my own bed, the expanse of my own oblivion. The truth is, I don’t remember. I remember only that he woke. I remember because it was unusual.
An expected death, a waited for death, a death which comes uninvited but not wholly unwelcome, drags behind it a range of emotions demanding admission. There are the tight contractions of your heart still beating like a traitor inside your ribcage. There is the leaden realization that nothing, not one single thing, will be the same. There is a sense of relief and a deluge of guilt and, if you are lucky, a quiet, enveloping numbness. There is a small pocket of air in which to breathe again.
Two weeks before that otherwise ordinary day, I said good-bye. My father knew he was loved; that his laughter, his stubbornness, his simply being would be missed. I needed him to know I was happy. A happy that went beyond the sickness, beyond the grief. A happy that waited, patient and quiet, to be reclaimed.
In our family, happiness is not a given. It is not a trait passed down like blue eyes and long legs, like heart disease or depression. There are several boughs of our family tree crumbling with rot. There is a real danger of breaking your neck on the way down. I wanted my father to know I had found my footing, my counterbalance: despite rotten branches and a dying parent, I had found a place of happiness.
My father was wasted away from the cancer. He had tumors you could see and touch pressing through his skin. Yet he understood. He was still, in every capacity, my father; slightly watered down, but my father nonetheless. He understood. For that small mercy, I am grateful. It is the only thing that allowed me to breathe when I got into my car to travel home. Those breaths did not come easily, but they came.
My father died in the early hours of an otherwise ordinary, August day. It was as peaceful as dying can be, the fleeting moment of time and breath that takes you from the living to the dead. The lights had flickered dim, then bright, my mother said. There were no storms, no faulty fuses, no electrical surges, simply a flicker. Dim, then bright. A small, wayward movement in the universe, a butterfly flutter between two worlds.
Dim, then bright. The same time that my son had woken the night before.
That summer, I learned to look for the unexpected. What I found was my father: in the sweet night sweat of my son’s dreams, in the corners of a room that went dim, then bright, in the shiny copper of a forgotten penny. I found him in my own happiness. Though my foot sometimes slips on a rotted branch, he is always there to guide my way, his hand at my back.
First published on August 1, 2014 as the winner of Paste’s That Summer writing contest.
As August 2nd marks the 10th anniversary of my father’s death, I continue to honor his memory by sharing this memory here.
Wine and Cheese (Doodles) 
Lovely, thanks for sharing Dina. I’m drawn to the image (and name) of the Mourning Cloak butterfly too, thanks for reminding me of that. I think I wrote a poem somewhere with the same name, it’s gorgeous. Odd about your son and not odd, too. – Bill
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I will admit I only came across the Mourning Cloak butterfly while researching images for this post. I knew a butterfly would work as I referenced that flutter with words, but it seemed too perfect that there would be one called the Mourning Cloak. The idea of an actual mourning cloak is such a somber and beautiful idea, something heavy to mask and shelter during a dark and difficult time, something to shed when the time is right, protection while the wearer weaves and cocoons into something else–which is a necessity after a death–. Is your poem on the blog for me to search or should I tell you to dig it out and share?
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As perfectly written as anything I have ever read and death. Continue to share this.
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Thank you, Ginger. I really appreciate that.
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Great writing. Time does not heal, it just makes the pain feel different.
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It’s true. Most of the time I don’t think about it consciously, but then out of the blue I’ll get slammed by a memory or a song or something shimmering there on the edge of my consciousness. The bleeding stops, but there is always a bruise. A mark.
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Thanks for sharing. True words on the effect of family on your whole life
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Thank you so much.
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you gift is writing that sinks deep into the bones, keeps those gone present with us, and presses into memory the ones we hold by that thinnest of threads, unable to bear the thought of letting go…
may your father rest in peace as he dances through your pen.
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Thank you for that–as my father dances through my pen–that’s a beautiful thought. My father has always been a focal point of my writing in one way or another–for many years, even before he died, it was angrier, trying to make sense (those rotten tree branches). But his presence is there, somehow always. The image of his influence as ink is a powerful one and one I shall remember. Thank you.
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Beautiful. I was able to say good bye to my dad in much the same way. You make me feel the warmth, even with the distance.
I’ve been writing about an ordinary August death, my sister Beth’s. My family has a habit of dying on major holidays. My sister Beth, jokingly promised to die on an ordinary Tuesday. And she did.
Death just sucks, no matter how you cut it.
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Looking back and writing this, I was so grateful I had that time. I didn’t make the same connections then of course. Then I was just filled with that feeling of swallowing all your sadness until it feels like your chest is filled with a balloon–you know the feeling. You’ve lost so much, Elyse, especially in your sisters. It does suck, no matter if it’s on Christmas or as Beth and my dad, an ordinary Tuesday (my dad was a Tuesday too)
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Reblogged this on Wine and Cheese (Doodles) and commented:
My father died in the early hours of an otherwise ordinary, August day. It was as peaceful as dying can be, the fleeting moment of time and breath that takes you from the living to the dead.
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Lovely. He would be proud of the words you used to honor him. May his memory always be a blessing.
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Thank you. I was lucky enough to know he was proud of me, which is a gift I get to take with me.
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