The holidays are upon us, and I am still in shock that my dad, who passed away three months ago, won’t be part of them. He had been in declining health for years. It’s not as though it were a complete surprise, and at 51 I understand that I had more time with him than many get. But still. I feel a profound sadness that he is physically gone from my life.
It’s an adjustment. Not so much to the fact that he’s “gone”, but in the way I register his existence. Because, let’s face it, his failing 85-year-old body was far from the most important thing about him. He is like the poppies in my garden. They make me gasp with their beauty, but eventually all that remains of each poppy is a dry stalk and a seed head that looks a little like the Space Needle in Seattle.
Am I comparing my beloved father to a dry stalk, or the Space Needle? No. But consider this: one poppy plant has a lot of blooms. And each bloom produces a seed head. So, one poppy plant can contain up to 60,000 seeds. They are minuscule and light, so a little wind can carry them far. A tiny patch of poppies can become a sea of them the next season.
Every kindness, every selfless act, every encouraging word from my father was like one of those seeds. Endless in their frequency, reach, and impact. And ultimately, each bloomed and grew into something beautiful.
My dad in his regular form is no more, but he is far from gone. His children, his grandchildren, his great-grand children, the people who worked with him, his neighbors and friends all carry a bit of him in them. Every time one of us tells a story about him to someone new, a little piece of him goes with that person, too.
So I will tell his stories. Here’s one:
He had been working out in his garden, and I was in my room when I heard him come running in. I followed him into the bathroom where I saw that he was gently washing a handful of cicadas.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he laid out a hand towel on which to place the insects after their bath.
“Oh, Joe down the street didn’t know what these were, so as they were emerging from the ground, he sprayed them with insecticide. I think I stopped him in time to save most of them.”
I felt my heart crack for a couple of reasons. One, because I knew that these cicadas, who created the soundtrack for my muggy New Jersey childhood summers, had been underground for 17 years waiting to emerge, and were largely harmless. Only to be greeted by an uninformed human with murderous intent. And two, because I just loved my sweet, gentle dad so much. I knew it had taken a measure of bravery for this soft-spoken, nature lover to go explain to someone why he didn’t need to be afraid of these admittedly terrifying-looking insects. He put himself in an uncomfortable situation to save them, despite the fact that Joe would probably look at him funny, and also still not really care about cicadas.
This is one of my favorite memories of him because it personifies him so well. Just a human trying to do his best to tread lightly, with love and humility. He was the very best. I am so, so thankful for him, and the way he continues to teach, comfort, and support me.
How about you? Who are you thankful for who is no longer with you in the flesh? Tell me a story about them in the comments, and grow their reach a little more.
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