I didn’t know that when I looked at my father that day that it would be the last time. I drove over to his house after work, parked in the grass as directed and texted my mom that I wouldn’t stay too long. I remember that he was chopping wood and asked me to come stand with him as he worked. I told him about my week, my strong distaste for his messy yard (“Honestly, dad. Don’t you ever clean?”) and my recently completed application to UNC Asheville. He asked me why I wanted to move so far away for college and I told him that our hometown was simply not for me. He agreed to take me on a tour of the UNCA campus. I gave him a quick hug and made my way to my car, promising to come and visit before my senior year of high school started. I glanced in my rearview mirror as I drove away. Perhaps if I would have known that my dad would pass away just a mere three weeks after our last interaction I would have stayed longer and appreciated more. In fact, I know I would have.
Sometimes it is difficult for me to fathom the idea that my dad is gone. I remember believing with my entire heart that my dad was the strongest man in the world as I was growing up. I was never afraid of anything because, no matter the circumstances, I knew that my dad would protect me. How could it be possible for my father, my protector, and my provider to be gone? My dad’s death not only left me feeling heartbroken, but vulnerable as well.
Around a month after my dad’s death I was driving home after school when I noticed a red pickup truck parked on the outskirts of a construction site (construction being my father’s lifelong profession). The truck looked almost identical to my father’s and so I began to pull over, hoping to stop in and say hello to my dad whom I hadn’t seen in so long. It wasn’t until I had put my car in park and began to unbuckle my seatbelt that I realized that the truck couldn’t belong to my father. No matter how many days I go without hearing my dad’s voice, I often forget that I can no longer call my dad’s familiar phone number or stop by on my way to and from school as I often did. Although it’s been nearly a year since my dad passed away, a part of me is still broken. I think a part of me will always be broken. Coming to terms with the death of a parent is a long, grueling process that I’m still figuring out. It might take me an entire lifetime to figure it out.
To those of you who have also suffered the loss of a parent or guardian: you are so incredibly brave. I know that you probably don’t feel like a whole person right now, but you have already overcome so much. Simply remember that healing comes with time.
