Next month it will have been nine years since I held my dad’s hand and said goodbye for the last time.
It has been nearly nine years since I have seen my dad in the flesh, or heard his voice, or best of all — seen him in a full-body laugh.
Nine years is a long time. In the throes of intense, immediate grief, nine DAYS is an eternity.
The holidays still have a way of amplifying the hole in my heart, though gratefully, not as intensely as they did at first. Dad died on Dec. 22, three days before his favorite holiday. The first few months after we buried him was a matter of existing from one minute to the next. Now it feels more like this dull, aching, emptiness and longing that nothing this side of the veil can quench.
Dad’s last Thanksgiving with us was eye-opening and heartbreaking for all of us. I lived with my parents, so I had seen his gradual decline over the previous year. He needed my mom and I’s assistance for most tasks. He had been sleeping a lot more, and when he was awake, he was very quiet, and not as actively present as before. Like part of his spirit had already gone before him, or something.
As our family sat around the table, overindulging as usual, Dad sat across from me and picked at his piece of cherry pie with his fork, going back to bed without hardly taking a bite. Dad was not one to skip on any part of any holiday feast, when he was well. This is when I think it hit the rest of my siblings how serious the situation was.
These days when the family gathers for holidays, I try to focus more on the fun memories. We laugh about how, when dinner was ready, Dad was always the first one in line. Always. We even joke it wasn’t beyond him to elbow people out of the way so he could fill his plate first, although I’m not sure that ever actually happened.
At Christmas, I like to remember him seated on a chair in the corner of his living room, amid the noise and chaos of our family opening presents and mounds of wrapping paper scattered about. He would have a pile of gifts to open, and when we had a dog, he would be sitting close by.
Above all else, even the big spread of food, opening gifts was Dad’s favorite part of the holiday. Dad was the youngest of 10 children, so when he was young, his elder siblings and their families spoiled him with all manner of gifts under the Christmas tree. He lived his life wanting to give us that same experience, even if it meant wrapping a package of socks. And between he and my mom, he was the one who would wrap (shoddily, I might add) all our presents. To him, it was still a wondrous gift to anticipate what was beyond the holiday-themed wrapping paper, regardless of what it turned out to be.
A few years before he died, Dad had wrapped a gift for me, that I could tell he couldn’t wait to see me open. If I remember correctly, he even gave it to me in person, ahead of time. He was proud of it. It turned out to be a box of battery-operated LED candles. Prior to that, I hadn’t really used battery-operated candles. I did like lighting real candles around the house though, and so did he. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have one or more scented candles lit on the kitchen counter, only to have someone walk by and blow them out.
Now, I have four LED candles, in various sizes, grouped together on the mantle, next to my rustically-decorated Christmas tree. At night, I like to sit in the dark, with just the tree lit and the candles and fireplace turned on.
It’s funny how four faux candles can take on a living presence of their own.
Almost as if it were a miracle.
- SPIRIT MATTERS is a weekly column that examines experiences common to the human spirit. Contact Jerrilyn Zavada at jzblue33@yahoo.com to share how you engage your spirit in your life and community.