The Birds Keep Singing

When Dad died, it was unfathomable that the world just went on. The breeze kept blowing, the birds kept singing, people kept crossing streets, and talking, and breathing. The minutiae of the universe continued, uninterrupted.

Didn't they know my Dad was gone? That at 12:35 p.m. on February 7, 2020, everything changed? That my heart, the world, stopped?

In the days immediately following Dad's death, I adequately performed the functions of my life. I ate, slept, showered, did stuff, even accomplished things, important things. I walked, and worked, and talked, and arranged. I organized, and explained, and researched, and notified, and comforted. I experienced moments of searing pain and moments of blinding clarity. I also knew, at some point, I'd have to merge back into the traffic of my regular life. The thought terrified me. There was no regular life to which I could return. I couldn't imagine moving toward a future that required me to leave my Dad behind.

Today, less than two months later, the world that had unfathomably kept on going has, just as unfathomably, stopped. The Cornonavirus pandemic has closed schools and businesses, grounded planes, and emptied streets. Gyms, movie theaters, performances, gatherings, even coffee dates and hugs between friends, gone. The regular life to which I was afraid to return no longer exists. My grief, a droplet in an ocean of loss.

As I walk and work in my garden, I observe the unfolding of Spring and notice that only the human world is in disarray. The plants continue to respond to the sun and the soil, following their own internal instructions. The animals continue to gather in the branches and on rooftops, looking for food, shelter, and mates.

In this terrible pause, there is space. There is less noise.

I close my eyes and see Dad’s face, his golden eyes, his strong arms and sturdy body. I hear his voice and recall what he taught me.

I begin to understand what a legacy really is.

I hear the birds, they keep singing.