We Are Never Truly Alone.
I found myself missing my father this morning. As the morning sun found its place amongst the trees, I wondered if he was there – perhaps watching over in a different form.
Could he still see me? Was he still proud?
I thought time might help to ease the pain in his passing…perhaps, soften it a bit. However, mornings like this – I hear the sound of his tractor keeping up with the task of ensuring our house was a home.
In the weeks following his death, I could barely function. There were days I found it difficult to wake up, to pull myself from the bed; to perform the simplest of tasks. And when I did, everything seemed to be a reminder; the trees, the air – that dusty bottle of Marsala at the back of the pantry.
At first, I was angry that these images seemed altered; cherished memories once the source of such joy now a stinging nettle. Even a quick trip to the grocery store offered an unavoidable upset – “wasn’t that the brand of tomatoes we used”, thinking of the many hours spent together in the kitchen.
In looking through the window this morning, I realized how much my pain had transformed. I could see beyond the bounds of physical form. He was ‘gone’, yes – though, his passing helped to deepen my resolve; to demonstrate clearly that I was never really alone.
That all things have a place, though it’s our heart which makes a home. That even profound sadness may, in time, share its blessing.
We are never really alone; and as I stand as witness to this light breaking through the trees I know…
My father’s love is always here with me…
In peace, my friends …