Still No Words in Magical Realism

My dad passed away last Monday. My dad.

My sister found him in his chair in the morning, resting peacefully. I went up to my parents’ house as soon as I heard, then the visitation was on Thursday, and funeral mass/burial was on Friday. I’ve been away for work since Sunday night now and still not even close to processing everything. Anything. In some ways it’s business as usual, in some ways, I am surprised to see myself moving, typing, talking to people like a normal functional human.

The big things, the things I dreaded, like lowering him into the ground or putting white roses on the casket, were maybe easier than I thought. It’s the little things that sneak out of nowhere and break my heart. At the Cornell campus store and burying the instinct to buy him a sweatshirt, because there is no one to wear that sweatshirt, anymore. Seeing my contacts in my cell phone for “Mom and Dad,” need to edit now because there is no Dad anymore.

Saw so many relatives and friends from so many years ago. My uncle is the oldest of three brothers, and outlived them all. My beautiful cousin Diane, who I always looked up to. All my dad’s old work partners, some drove up from Florida as soon as they heard. Everyone from the pool club. Saw the first guy I ever kissed. The neighbors. The guy who used to drive my dad to his cancer treatments. Wished so hard we all got together on happier occasions. We never will.

Being mistaken for my sister, one million times. My sister telling me she was confused for me, the other million. Me crying every single time someone told me how much he talked about me. Me crying in public. I would not have believed it if you told me before it happened.

At the wake and at the funeral, the NYPD brought me to tears so many times, the ceremonial clicking of the heels and the goodbye salutes. The presentation of the folded US flag to my mother by a strong jawed officer. What a tough job he must have. My sister and I did readings at the funeral. Me the Old Testament, I held it together and gave a sober, meaningful reading, but only after tripping and almost wiping out on the altar. My sister did the New Testament reading, tearful and sniffling throughout. Sometimes the body works, but the mind betrays. Sometimes it’s the reverse. My heart was breaking for her as I watched her up there, wanting to hug her, comfort her. In some ways I know there is no consolation for this. But we only have each other.

I think most of all I feel bad for my mom, my brother, my sister. Walking up the steps of my childhood church holding my mom’s hand as she walked behind the coffin of the man she’d been married to for 44 years, and loved for more than a decade before that. Over half a century together. How do you go on?

How did she walk down the same aisle she walked down as a bride, the same church where she baptized all of her children. The priest my dad never liked, because no one could ever understand him. So many memories. Holding on to my sister’s hand, as we both cried and walked down the aisle. I am sorry my dad won’t be there to walk her down the aisle when she gets married. I am sorry that my brother has to be so strong, handle all the departmental stuff, the brotherhood stuff, my dad was so proud of him.

Red eyes behind sunglasses in bright sun, watching the hearse drive away. One day maybe I can write about this, about him. A couple of old entries written on key dates about my dad are included here. I need to keep close something that captures even part of the person he was.

In many ways, everything I’ve ever done in my life was for myself and myself alone. In other ways, everything I’ve done in my life was to make him proud.

Last updated November 21, 2014