Her father was close to death.
“Is it raining?” he asked.
“No, Dad, it’s beautiful outside—and it’s even more beautiful where you are going,” she answered as confidently as she could despite the hidden tears behind her eyes and the quiver in her voice…“Be sure to say hello to my sister for me and give her a big hug. I love you both so much and I’m glad you’ll be able to be together again.”
With her father’s death, memories of the months of exhaustion, fear, self-doubt, second-guessing, and even complaining (“When will all this end?”), instantly vanished.
She had experienced the death of loved ones before, but never did it hurt like this. She was in her forties, but she felt orphaned—at first there was a delayed reaction and she was bathed in peace knowing his death had been gentle and loving…but as reality set in she felt such a sense of emptiness (that she just couldn’t put into words no matter how hard she tried) and a sort of abandonment and panic (again that loss of words…so “abandonment” and “panic” didn’t quite fit).
It caught her by surprise.
Perhaps “loss” was the word she was simply looking for.
Why that indefinable feeling?
She guessed it was for a combination of reasons—she had just lost her family oral history for one; two, in many respects her relationship with her father had been the best ever for the past ten months before his passing; three…(there were many reasons)…
Although she had grown up and become a caretaker to her ailing father, she would always be a child in relation to her parents—and it was the parent of her youth and childhood that she would bury. But ironically, it was the parent of her adulthood that she would miss the most.
He had taught her a lot! (That was an understatement!)
And she would be forever grateful to him.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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