Today marks three weeks since we buried my father, and it seems no less surreal today than it did on that day.
The finality of death is unsettling in myriad ways, and I have spent most of my time thinking about his loss in two very different veins. On the one hand, his death feels acutely like the word I just used to describe his passing–loss–so much so that it actually feels like I have lost him, left him behind, and that if I searched for him I would find him somewhere. I guess that is why they call it “loss.”
On the other hand, my father, who was such a presence in all of our lives, seems to be everywhere still, in sort of like an Obi Wan Kenobi-after-he-is-killed-by Darth Vader-glow-in-the-dark-Jedi Master-sort-of-way. Everywhere I turn I see him and I am comforted by knowing he will be with me always. In this sense, I am always finding him.
These are the twin currents of facing life without a loved one. The pain and the comfort. And I don’t expect either will ever go away, new companions, both wanted and unwanted, as life marches on.