The next morning, Mom, Uncle Merlin, Aunt Bea and I arrived at the funeral home, where we were met by the director. He approached us and handed me the belt my father had been wearing with the familiar “long-horn” buckle he had always worn.
The reality of Dad’s death hit me like a brick wall, and tears streamed from my eyes. A droplet fell from my nose, hitting the pavement between my feet, and I thanked the director.
We were guided into a small chamber, where my father was lying on a table with a sheet pulled up to his chest. Mom stretched out one of her delicate hands, placed it on his forehead and whispered, “Oh, honey.”
“Vera,” Uncle Merlin surmised, “it just looks like he’s asleep, doesn’t it?”
As Mom’s fingertips gently stroked my father’s brow, I sensed a soundless conversation between the two:
“Honey, I came here to tell you goodbye. I wish we were alone, that every word could be said out loud. We have been through so much together. There were so many things we never acknowledged, so many things my heart wanted to express and now, my opportunities have been squandered.”
“Honey, I understand that you were hurting inside. Your aging body, along with its aches and limitations, produced frustration. Things that were once so easy for you to do became impossible. You were lonely and isolated in the house.”
I know how Dad felt, because our souls were so damned much alike. He reached out to me, not knowing how, and my response was poor. He tried to ask me for just a moment, and I wouldn’t give it.
Why didn’t I express, in words, my empathy or how much I loved my father? Why would I not get close to him or put my arms around him? Why did I fail to make time to be with or to do things with my dad? Where in the hell have I been?!
Yet, there was a remarkable solace in seeing the softened features of my father’s face - finally at rest and no longer in pain. Even Uncle Merlin beheld this and asked the customary question, “Doesn’t he look peaceful?”
The reality of Dad’s death hit me like a brick wall, and tears streamed from my eyes. A droplet fell from my nose, hitting the pavement between my feet, and I thanked the director.
We were guided into a small chamber, where my father was lying on a table with a sheet pulled up to his chest. Mom stretched out one of her delicate hands, placed it on his forehead and whispered, “Oh, honey.”
“Vera,” Uncle Merlin surmised, “it just looks like he’s asleep, doesn’t it?”
As Mom’s fingertips gently stroked my father’s brow, I sensed a soundless conversation between the two:
“Honey, I came here to tell you goodbye. I wish we were alone, that every word could be said out loud. We have been through so much together. There were so many things we never acknowledged, so many things my heart wanted to express and now, my opportunities have been squandered.”
“Honey, I understand that you were hurting inside. Your aging body, along with its aches and limitations, produced frustration. Things that were once so easy for you to do became impossible. You were lonely and isolated in the house.”
I know how Dad felt, because our souls were so damned much alike. He reached out to me, not knowing how, and my response was poor. He tried to ask me for just a moment, and I wouldn’t give it.
Why didn’t I express, in words, my empathy or how much I loved my father? Why would I not get close to him or put my arms around him? Why did I fail to make time to be with or to do things with my dad? Where in the hell have I been?!
Yet, there was a remarkable solace in seeing the softened features of my father’s face - finally at rest and no longer in pain. Even Uncle Merlin beheld this and asked the customary question, “Doesn’t he look peaceful?”
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