If we are lucky, we can remember some really good stuff about our Dad. My Dad and I were a bit estranged when he died. I got the phone call at work, me on the West coast, the call from the East Coast, when my father died. I was 25, he was 55, and I remember, after the initial shock, thinking that at least he lived a long life.
So much unresolved. Eight years after his death, I had a visitation, two of them, and I wrote this:
Father! Dear Father!
"Your father is gone"
the voice said,
shaking and trembling.
Of course he's gone!
He's been gone,
as I hear it again
over this earpiece
expanding 3,000 miles
of cable, and wood,
and dirt, and water,
and forests, and deserts,
and mountains, and cities,
and ghettos, and metropolises,
and lives,
and deaths.
My father's gone.
But, I let him go long ago,
when he disappointed me
and I disappointed him
and we, each, ourselves.
I have not grieved him.
Eight long years of barren grief!
It is a heavier burden
than the stark, biting, ripping,
madness of grief-stricken grief!
For it hangs heavy
and pulls endlessly
at the entrapped joy
begging
to come up and breath
the richness of life.
And, now, twice he has come to me
in the gray mist of dawn.
He played to me exquisite melodies
upon a most wondrous violin
made with his own gentle hands.
He wordlessly conveyed
the joyous and tear-ridden essense
of his new realm.
And again he came,
in all serenity and calm
in a horse drawn chariot
with his new bride.
For an instant
his eyes captured mine
and held them with mystical percipience.
He had transcended his need for my forgiveness,
letting me know the rest is all up to me,
and he set me free.
I love you Dad! Today I just remember the good stuff! You taught me so much, during life, and especially after death.