My father died 45 years ago today at age 47. I was 18.<\/p>\n
That event shaped me in immeasurable ways, and in his absence I have borne a deep wound, a hole in my heart I have struggled to fill. I am one of the few tangibles left of his legacy and have tried and failed many times over to live in a way that honors his memory.<\/p>\n
For years after he died, I had a recurring dream. He would appear at the door of our house in Virginia and knock. I would open it and exclaim, “Dad, where have you been?”<\/p>\n
He was downcast and silent. This made sense to me in my waking hours because during his final months I had witnessed a fog of grief and anxiety envelope him as his health declined and death fast approached. He never said as much to me, but I believe he was disappointed when the god he served seemed to return his faithfulness by abandoning him and breaking his heart.<\/p>\n
In those dreams, he never said a word. Instead, he turned and walked away, frustrated perhaps at his inability to cross the door’s threshold or express in words his sorrow at having to leave us behind.<\/p>\n
After several years of this, one night I had the same dream but with a different ending. In lieu of sad silence, my father was shining, smiling, and singing in a language I did not understand. He turned and left me standing there, agape. I never had that dream again.<\/p>\n
I am agnostic as to what that dream means, whether it is a sign of struggle and triumph in another realm, simply a storm of chemicals and electricity in my brain marking my own acceptance and healing, or a little of both.<\/p>\n
It’s an impenetrable mystery, and I am content, peaceful even, to leave it as it is.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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