The Grief Diet: On the loss of my father

I look at pictures and the memories bring him back to life.

My daughters tell me that they can do anything when they grow up.

I hear stories about him from his friends and family.

I am around his beloved greyhounds.

My husband and I listen to his favorite jazz album.

I can now feel close to my mother.

I hear from my friends the difference he made in their lives.

I dig my heels in and won’t budge.

The paranormal continues to fascinate me.

He visits me in my dreams and fixes what is broken.

I am hiking in the mountains and sense he is with me.

I think about my career.

I am patient rather than short tempered.

I choose to think before speaking.

I don’t give up.

I have an open mind.

I keep living because of what he made possible.

I hear his voice inside my head.

I look in the mirror.

I can get out of bed and breathe in and out,

I can remember to eat and actually enjoy the taste,

I can go into the card section of grocery store and not fall to pieces when I see cards that say “father,” “dad,” or “daddy,”

I can dance around the living room, while listening to “Dancing Queen” with my two daughters,

I can hang out with my friends and laugh till I cry,

I can sit still long enough to watch a whole episode of The Daily Show,

I can remember where I put my keys and not lock myself out of my car,

I can concentrate on what other people are saying without spacing out,

I can look forward to the holidays,

I don’t need a sleeping pill,

I can stay connected to myself,

I want to be around other people,

I can be a mom, wife, friend, and employee,

I can remember without weeping,

I can plan for the future,

I know he was proud of me,

I know the universe is not conspiring against me,

I know there was nothing left to say,

I know I can make it without him,

. . . most of the time.

I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to formulate my thoughts about this post. But there are parts of my grief I cannot articulate.

My mind keeps leading me back to the moment I had to decide whether to view my father’s body. But when I start to write about it, it slips away. It is within reach, but I don’t have the strength to grab it.

So this post is for all the things I can’t yet say.