Memory is a Crashing Wave

There is a lot that I do not remember about the year my father died. I piece together memory fragments like a puzzle. He was 47 and I was 5—I thought his oxygen tank a normal part of life. I do not remember knowing that his illness meant that he would die. At 5, I was devastated. Grief lived deep within my subconscious; I needed to be told I would be okay. When I turned 47, my son turned 5—the same age difference, almost down to the day. I started to examine and compare my son's childhood and mine, my father’s illness and my health. A box that my mother kept of my father’s items became a necessary exploration while home during COVID-19 lockdown. Through handling things that were markers of his life - a camera, his wallet, his pictures of us - I was able to make the connections between his life and my memory of his absence. The unexpected scent of him was familiar and brought him closer to me, closer to making him real. I lost my father and came to know vulnerability at a very young age. I craved normalcy, and in time, I thought I achieved it. Happiness returned, but it was different. I watch my children explore the world with wonderment and through them, I gain scattered pieces of what was quieted in myself. The swell of this loss is boundless and comes to me as a crashing wave. The profound loss of my father is my grief and it is love that lives on which I can share with my children. And while the waves still come when I least expect it, I am now left standing.