“Time marches on. And
sooner or later you realize, it’s marching right across your face”
– Dolly Parton
My father has been dead 15 years, as of yesterday. He was a wonderful man, and for years I kept
him “in the loop” of our lives emotionally and in thought. I remember for a long while I focused on the
bad things he’d avoided by dying. For example,
he missed the tragedy of 9/11, and the subsequent changes that caused in the
world. In death, he remained innocent to
it.
On the ten year anniversary of his death, I got a tattoo
(admittedly after 3 martinis), to honor him.
A large, colorful US Navy anchor on my left upper arm. After about a two month identity crisis
directly afterward, I have grown to love it as part of me.
At the 15 year mark, the pertinent dates of his life still
make my consciousness. My parents’ wedding
anniversary (January 15th), his birthday (in May), and, his
death. Admittedly, I have a strange “thing”
for dates. I still recall the birthdates
of lots of past friends, and the exact date I lost my virginity. This has always surprised me, as I am quite
unsentimental about most things. Maybe
storing dates is my way of relegating memories to their proper place and amount
of energy.
How we feel about loss is dependent on so many variables of
the people and situations. There is no
right or wrong way or timing – only that, like all things, it changes over
time. I can tell you from my process, I
learned the following:
-You can continue to have a relationship with someone long after they
are gone. Even now, I sometimes consider
how my dad might have reacted to a person or event – taking his “advice” posthumously.
It happens less and less as the years go by, but it’s there,
and I am so grateful.
Here is a poem I wrote on the subject at about the 10 year
mark.
Jabberwocky
The
charismatic sheriff left town.
He was
the only one who believed I’d be the people’s poet.
Words
are, after all, the perfect veil for the encomiast.
He was dead
tired.
Then,
dead
man walking.
I
watched him fold up like a gate leg table,
speaking
in tongues of undulating stares.
Still
unable to get yoked up to the jesuswagon.
Dead
silence.
Oh, how
the preacher tried!
Just
plain dead.
So now
I brush and love his white horse.
The one
he rode at forty.
And the
silvered leather tack gets polished
every
time I speak of him.
(you
see, this poem is earning its keep)
In
town, the street again filled with daily dust,
and the
saloon door swings one direction.
Unladylike
for a gal to drink alone.
But
land sakes,
I’d
give my spurs for one more sunset.
Thank you for listening.
I bid you peace, and welcome your comments or contact in confidence at swashblogger@gmail.com.
Xoxo
Jean
