march 5, day 62

Hi Dad. I went more than a month this time. It’s become easier and easer not to sit with these words, not to sit with my thoughts of you. But that’s because it’s becoming harder and harder to sit with these words, with these thoughts of you. With this grief. 

There are so many things that have happened, Dad. I almost left school, one semester away from finishing this masters degree. I had a panic attack for the first time in maybe a decade. I cried when I heard music. I keep forgetting and remembering that you’re gone, that I won’t hear your voice again (well, alive anyway), that I won’t feel your hands again, that I won’t get to call you again, argue with you again. Over and over again, it’s like tiny needles constantly moving up and down on my skin, going deeper each time. It’s that a bit dramatic.

Mom and I got the second shot of the vaccine on February 12. It’s really hard to sit with the fact that you would have gotten the vaccine only a few weeks after you died. Why couldn’t you have waited, just a month or so? Just a month. 

I got a dog Dad. She’s been with me now for almost two weeks. Her name is Phoenix. She was 10 months when we got her, now she’s almost 11 months. Mom, C and I drove all the way to Indianapolis to get her. We thought of you the whole way, sharing stories with C about how anytime Indianapolis was brought up the times you worked there, performed in the theater there, enjoyed your work and your life there. You were proud of that time. Mom shared more about the jobs you had there, how she came out to visit you. 

There are more parallels. Mom and I can’t really stop thinking about the fact that your pin was 1221… You died on 1/2/21. I met Phoenix on the 21st day of February. Her birthday is the 10th of April, so close to mine, an Aries like us, hah. 

You would love Phoenix. Absolutely love her. She has two differently colored eyes, blue and brown. I’ve said a number of times that you’d write stories about her eyes. Mom thinks there’s a connection to the way you talked about Rufus and his eyes in your stories. There’s a Native myth (I need to find where it originates) that says that dogs with bi-colored eyes have one eye in heaven and one here on Earth. I like to believe that. I like to believe that you know I have Phoenix, and that even as a puppy she’s looking over you. 

Mom and I planned a gathering of your friends and family on your birthday. I hate that it will be over Zoom, the same place where we watched you pass away. I promise we will gather again in person to celebrate you, Dad. 

It was only a few days ago that marked two months with you gone. This is never going to get easier, is it? I miss you a lot. 

I’m crying now. See, it’s been so much easier not to intentionally sit with you. I think that’s it for today. I’m really going to try and do this every day again, it’s not worth avoiding you. It’s time to dig into your words. To keep engaging. So, talk to you tomorrow, Papa Bear. 

march 6, day 63

Tonight I’ve opened up The Book of Embraces by Edward Caleano (translated by Cedric Belfrage), a magical collection of written motifs that I loved when I was a teenager… I don’t think I ever read through them all, I’m starting over now. These made me think of you — describing a child seeing the ocean (sea) for the first time:

“And so immense was the sea and its sparkle that the child was struck dumb by the beauty of it.

And when he finally managed to speak, trembling, stuttering, he asked his father:

“Help me to see!’”

Also, in another story:

“If the grape is made of wine, then perhaps we are the words that tell who we are.”

A beautiful way to describe the written word, the writer. I think you would have agreed with this, it would maybe have brought you some comfort.

Remember what you read in the grief support group tonight: when someone dies they take their memories of you. That part of you dies with them.

What a truth this is.

march 8, day 65

A short hello before my morning walk with Phoenix. Yesterday was full of talking, therapy, grief ‘support.’ An absolutely exhausting day, I didn’t have it in me to do much of anything.

Phoenix is pacing, she wants nothing more than to go outside. I wish you could see her, Dad, her head resting against the top of the couch, her puppy flexibility on full display as she rests in what does not look like a comfortable position, starring out of the window at the sunny day outside.

In this moment I do not feel pain. I am just really tired, and I wish you were here.

I am starting to wonder if it would be … something, helpful, important, supportive? … to share all of this publicly in some way.

This is clearly a disjointed moment as I sit here thinking of you. But at least here I am, Dad. Here I am.

march 11, day 68

The word “anniversary” has been everywhere this week, and today, the day the WHO announced the global pandemic a year ago. Everyone is talking bout survival, exhaustion, hope. All the things that happened, what we’ve learned, who we are grieving, what we’ve lost. The losses are big and they are unbalanced. You didn’t make it through this year, As today is marked, and people talk about the milestones of making it this far, the glimmer of hope as the vaccines hopefully begin to come more quickly and the weather starts to give us a taste of spring.

We survived, and you didn’t. There are no words to describe how this feels. It is heartbreaking, again and again and again and again.

march 16, day 73

I’m sitting in this Covid loss grief support group right now. It’s been a few days since I wrote anything down. I’ve been thinking so much about the reality of … well, I’m not sure how to articulate this thing that’s been sitting with me. It’s a cliche and everyone says it, but it’s sad that we only realize how much we have to lose until it is gone, till you’re actually gone.

I feel really alone today, Dad.

march 21, day 78

Your birthday. And your memorial. On Zoom of all fucking places. The cruel irony of the whole thing was deafening.

Afterwards Mom and I scattered some of your ashes into the water, which is what you wanted.

As a surprise for Mom, this morning I put together an underscore for the end of the story that we recorded for my creative storytelling project that has yet to see the light of day, even though it’s been a year since I was supposed to start. In a daze, really quickly. It’s a little sentimental, sappy, something right now? But I’m not really sure how to engage with this yet. Your voice in my ears. I still can’t believe we managed to record your story, “So You Think I’m A Rabbit,” just weeks before you got sick. I’m still going to do this, Dad, but I hate that it’s now a memorial.

Your voice is shocking.

march 22, day 79

march 25, day 82

march 30, day 87

Finally.