A little plot of land and some words on a stone...

Saturday marked the three year anniversary of my dad's death. I prefer to use the term he died. It sounds more honest and I need to tell the truth. I have actually wondered about the terminology coined to avoid using the word death. Some are humorously mysterious like "He kicked the bucket." Interesting since most people are unable to kick anything during their time of passing. Others denote greener pastures like "He's gone to the other side." This would be an okay phrase if I wasn't left wondering...the other side of what? My mind creates a giant wall between this life and the next or a mountain range separating the two worlds. It isn't a bad image, but it isn't one I believe either. There are poetic phrases like "ashes to ashes; dust to dust" or "gave up the ghost," but again both create imagery I'd rather live without. Poets have used phrases like "chalk cold corpse" or "food for worms" or "an empty glove" or "a plot fill." For obvious reasons, these are not really amicable descriptors either. If I had to choose a phrase at all I would probably go with "He passed away." I like the imagery it creates of a journey or of simply passing from one realm to another. No walls to climb; no mountains. No worm food or disintegration or kicking of buckets or otherwise. Still, I prefer to be honest; to make it black and white. He died. Three years ago.

The six months before he died I had the opportunity to take care of him. I'm not sure anyone who hasn't cared for a loved one who is dying would understand, but it is a rare and beautiful gift. There is something tremendously hard and tremendously wonderful about helping someone walk the last steps of their journey in this life. It is a time of great sorrow and great joy, a time of reflection and appreciation, a time of forgiveness and understanding. Watching someone die affords every opportunity for saying goodbye, for mending old wounds, for kissing old scars. It is a chance to let nothing remain unsaid. It is a time of wounding and a time of healing.

My dad and I spent most of his last months talking. We had many things to say and for us it was a time of alignment where we came to understand each other in a way we never had. We talked about life. We talked about death; about the colors of heaven, the long tunnel of light before the gate, the existence of the gate, the existence of the tunnel, and who would come to meet you. He was apprehensive, I think, about the unknown, about what was coming, and how events would transpire. He was ready, but unsure. It was a natural response.

Our talking filled the days or I would read out loud or I would sing or we would sit in silence and think about what had been said. I watched him sleep. He dreamt vivid dreams. They painted his face with joy or pain depending on the dream. I think he dreamed of heaven. I know he dreamed of loss.

He died on a Tuesday. He took his last breath at 8:26 in the morning. The sun was up and shining. The day was still cool from the night's dark. He waited until we were all there, surrounding him, sitting on the bed, saying goodbye. I arrived first and took the place I had occupied for six months--the chair next to his bed. I held his hand. I talked to him in our last minutes together. I whispered our secrets. I could feel him behind me.

Loss is a strangely beautiful thing--it cuts to the core of your self and your soul; it makes your heart raw with aching; it leaves you strangling for a word or a scream; it marks your face and your hands with tears; it is suffocating and consuming. Its beauty only comes after, when time creates enough distance that you can see its value. Losing someone focuses your life by adding richness and meaning to the flat perspective. Losing my dad has been difficult and part of the ache always remains, as does the scar, but it has been life changing too. For that, I am grateful.

So, for the anniversary, for my dad, for his death, I offer a remembrance for the life he lived-- for those he loved, for those he lost, for the great and beautiful span of his journey, for the mark he left on the landscape, for the place he rests, for all that is left...just a little plot of land and some words on a stone. I love you, Dad.