Dad’s Been Gone Six Years But I’m Still Learning From Him

Dad and me at the top of Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, UT, 2002

It’s been six years since Dad died. I struggle to describe those grief-black years without using words like shattered or obliterated. Recovery was glacial and it ground to a halt during the pandemic. 

But as I look around my life now, I can say I made it through. I wouldn’t call myself healed; more like reforged. I’m stronger, less afraid. I know more and less, both of which seem like progress. Am I happier? In a sense, yes, but not in a way that feels sparkly or effervescent. Happiness feels more like gratitude.

Grief is a permanent fixture, but I’m no longer consumed by it. I can look back over its arc and see how far I’ve come. 

But there’s irony in that. As the pain lessens so does my proximity to life with Dad, which is its own heartbreak.

In the early 70s.

Grief moves in the opposite direction as well. Dad, now fixed in time at 86 years old, seems to draw nearer as I grow older. It’s as if the years between us is a distance that contracts each year. I can more easily identify with him as I approach my own old age. His wisdom, which glanced off me when I was younger, is starting to resemble my own.

If Dad were here he’d raise his eyebrows in a silent I told you so. The thing is, he’s not here, and yet his example still teaches me.

I take comfort in knowing our connection is made of sturdier stuff than memory. Dad’s wisdom doesn’t expire. It’s living and dynamic, still here for me when I’m ready to receive it.

This puts me more at ease with my own parenting. I’m no longer as bothered when my kids leave behind the pearls of wisdom I try to shove into their pockets. We’re just playing out our parts in the timeless handoff between generations.

I may never know which pearls they’ll end up keeping, but I trust they’ll still be there if and when my kids need them.