My dad was my favorite person. And when he died, a nothingness consumed me.
Grief reorganizes your DNA. When you lose someone you love, it’s like losing an arm, a leg, an organ—and somehow, you continue living and doing the dishes. It is impossible and banal. Our brains map loved ones in time and space, so when they die, we keep searching for them. The incomprehensibility is biological and cellular.
My dad and I shared a sense of humor and deep spiritual curiosity. Our conversations danced between profound wisdom and delicious absurdity. It was my happy place—our own private world of dad jokes and insights about the universe.
Then he became ill. I watched him transmute first from Parkinson’s and then cancer—from a towering man of 6’2″, over 200 lbs, to this frail thing of 125 lbs. And then, he was gone. It was surreal. I’d pick up the phone to tell him something funny or ask a question, only to remember he couldn’t answer. People told me to talk to him anyway, but I couldn’t hear him. All I wanted was his voice at the end of the line—answering with his signature “Oh, No, Not YOU!” that would crack us both up. I desperately craved his ribbing, his sage advice, his presence. The nothingness was the most vast, terrifying place I had ever existed.
Like water slipping through my fingers, time has blurred everything I loved about him. His voice, his corny jokes, the smell of black coffee that lingered on him—where these details were once exact, intricate, and vivid, they’re now drawn in broad strokes. I try to hold on, try to conjure the details, but every year, every day, something fades. And I mourn these little losses.
And yet, he is with me. When I was twelve, my father introduced me to Transcendental Meditation, planting seeds for my spiritual journey. After he died, I yearned for a visitation, a sign, something concrete. Sometimes, I’d dream of him calling for me, as he did when dying, but this wasn’t what I sought. I wanted his jokes, his reassurance, his steady presence.
Months after his death, I sat in meditation, aching in the silence. He appeared as a vision—standing inside my broken heart, spackling the cracks. I almost saw him winking: ‘I’ve been waiting for you. What took you so long?! ‘ His love enveloped me, and I knew that love endures even when transformed. He was in me now. I finally understood the Buddhist saying, ‘I am his continuation.’
I thought he was lost forever, and in some ways, that’s true. I’ll never feel his bear hug again. His voice is gone, and his smell, once grounding, has faded. But I still hear the echo of his corny jokes, and they still make me giggle.
Here I am, 15 years later, loving him as much as I did then—more. Even without his physical presence, our relationship continues and deepens. My grief is just another form of our love—an eternal thread connecting us across time, space, and memory. I am ever my father’s daughter, and he is always with me, spackling the cracks of my heart again and again.
