Missing Dad

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
-Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The past eight weeks since I lost my dad have been a rollercoaster of emotions. I compare losing a parent to becoming a parent yourself for the first time; you just can't understand what it is like until you are in it yourself. One minute I’m fine, consoling my daughter or one of his friends who call to see how I am doing. The next minute the air is sucked out of my lungs and I can’t breathe, the tears burn my eyes as I realize I’m not going to see him plodding across the soccer field to see Lauren play or see him pull up in his convertible to take her out for ‘a playdate with grandpa’.

Losing my dad is like losing an anchor that I assumed would always be there, reminding me of where I came and keeping me in check. Don't get me wrong: he wasn't perfect, made lots of mistakes and we often disagreed about things, even recently. As a teenager I was sure he didn't understand what it was like to be young, and he seemed to put too much emphasis on my academics when I was too wrapped up in my friends. Of course as a parent now, I know he just wanted to shield me from hurt and disappointment; he knew what I was capable of before I had any idea.

But over the years I've come to appreciate the gentle, witty and warm man my father was. He never talked to me about his own parents, whom he lost when he was in his early 20's before he even met my mother (and they married when he was 23). When I lost my dad I felt so lost I was heartbroken at the thought of him losing both of his parents so young. How did he manage? The pain is so sharp, I can’t imagine him being able to talk about them without breaking down, something I rarely saw him do.

Lately, when I'm at his house, I talk to him. I've never been a 'religious' person, but I do consider myself spiritual. In the past, when I would think about my own mortality it scared me in many ways; it seemed so final, it sometimes made me sad to think of the things I wanted to do and never did (I’m a little old to be a foreign exchange student, so please don’t suggest that it’s never too late!). But since dad died, I've been overcome with a feeling of peace, the sense that someday, a long time from now (hopefully), he'll be there waiting for me and it won't be 'the end' but more of a reunion. I'm not as afraid.

I've always liked Robert Frost, but now when I read this poem, I'm reminded of my dad. My dad's house, the house where I grew up and where I was married, is mine now. My family and I plan to move there soon. He built it, with my uncles and my mother’s father, who was like another father to him (I can still remember the way he looked and sounded when he sat me down and told me my grandpa had died, how still and silent he was, listening to my mother sob behind the bathroom door as I sat on the edge of their bed, his head bowed). The house is beautiful, very wooded and peaceful with a large brick patio overlooking the woods and barn; when I read Frost's words I feel like they are speaking for me as I look out at this monument to him. I plan to bring him home soon, and have his urn in the back yard, one of his favorite places, where he enjoyed sitting on the patio drinking a can of beer after a hard day’s work.

Right now his home is empty of the sights, smells and sounds of his life, the little things that made it his home. The tub of orange sherbet in the freezer, the woodsy scent of his shaving cream in his bathroom, his shoeshine kit with all the little tin jars of polish, the theme from Bonanza blaring away on the television as he sat on the edge of his red leather recliner with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, gluing a miniscule piece of wood to another tiny train boxcar. I'm expecting to see him coming from around the corner, out of his office, hunting for his wallet, keys, his glasses; telling me a story, one he has probably already told me, but I don’t tell him and listen to him as he tells me again, the same rhythm and pauses and anecdotes, even simple gestures for effect, the same as last time. I want to hear one of those stories again right now; I want to hear his voice just one more time.

But I have miles to go before I sleep.

Happy Holidays 2010

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