When my father died in July last year, I found myself entering a new book with my family we weren’t rather prepared for.
In those earlier times, there were bills to pay, bankruptcy paperwork to file, and infinite administrative things to sort through. We were sensible, composed. But beneath that silent performance was a pain that neither of us really knew how to navigate.
My grandmother had leaned on my father for over 52 decades– physically, economically, financially. After he died, I knew she would have support. I decided to move up house– not out of obligation, but instinct – after staying on my own for more than a decade.
We had always been near. While living on my own, I visited them every trip. We spoke frequently – about what to make, what to see, what needed doing that trip. The common kind of proximity.
But this was unique. This was normal contact, mental pounds, and the gentle problem of staying present for someone else while holding space for your own sorrow.
Grief has a way of stirring all kinds of feelings. I found myself aching, not just for my dad, but for the peaceful anticipation that came with parenting.
There were times – small, sharp people – when I wished my efforts were more seen, or acknowledged. I was grieving also. But in our community, love is often spoken aloud. It comes through doing – through dishes prepared, activities run, appearance offered. And I had to learn to accept that.
However, we connected in little, significant ways. We sorted through images, reliving ancient tales in silence. And then there was the time I took Mum for a stroll at East Coast Park – her second visit that in years. I nudged her softly, hoping it might help lift her souls, even if just for a while.