Fatherless Child

Dad died August 6, 2017, eight hours before his 92nd birthday.

Dad’s death sends shockwaves through my being—vibrations that are shape shifters. I’ve started this post several times but it never seems right. I don’t know how to write about his death. My intention is to write what is true as best as I can know my heart. But I alternate between feeling that my heart isn’t in it or that I’m not being honest. I can’t see myself in any of Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ stages of grief. Mom asked me numerous times, “Do you think it’s strange I haven’t cried?” I should have said, “Yes, I am also walking in a strange land.” In the words of the Negro spiritual (but thinking of dad), “Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child. A long way from home.” This grief is heart breaking, busy, buried and confusing. For now, the only place I find home is in the wisdom of my breath. Here, truth blossoms with gentle hands and a soothing touch and the need for understanding or explanation is replaced by being. My tears are an ephemeral but profound visitation of a world beyond the wall.

Almost Tears

​Ripe droplets, no names
Waiting to be found
Longing for silence--
Enough space to fall
On a thirsty soil
Such small voices in
Complicated homes
Holy places and
Some hidden from grace
Yes—but spaces like
Unexamined wine
Too little, too much
Contradictory
Stored in flesh and bone
Cells that could sing
If only held soft
Unlocked by own hand
With a sacred breath
Almost arrives—now
 
David Fredrickson
August 2017