DEEP CHASM

Thank you for all the nice notes. My life must go forth without my daddy. I will always have this quiet grief that hangs on me like a well worn oversized sweater. I really don’t think it is possible to feel completely whole again.

I had baby sister’s two beautiful children for a couple of days. It was a blessing to have them with me on daddy’s birthday. They gave me the sweet child like comfort and unconditional love that I needed. I took them on a long walk at dusk on daddy’s birthday. We took the trail through the forest which winded down to the bay. A beautiful walk with the moonlight as our only light. My Rottie, Nelly, was the lead man on the trail. She guided us safely to the water’s edge. I feel the greatest comfort when I’m surrounded by NATURE. This is where I find my greatest peace and fill the presence of my dad. He speaks to me through the forest, the bay, the river,and through the rocks.

We had our annual end of summer gathering at the lake. All my sisters were there except Ding-a-ling. Nobody knew where she was. I always worry about her -wondering if she is in a manic or depressant mood. The later mood is bad and I worry about her hurting herself. I can’t deal with another loss. I have the hardest time being with my family knowing that everyone is grieving in their own way but no one is brave enough to utter anything about what happened to daddy. In the past, just the word “daddy” would get my sister’s in tears. So, I guess things are sometimes better unsaid.

Grief remains one of the few things that has the power to silence us.

It is a whisper in the world and a clamor within.

More than sex, more than faith, even more than its usher death,

grief is unspoken, publicly ignored

except for those few moments at the funeral that are over too quickly,

or the conversations among the cognoscenti,

those of us who recognize in one another

a kindred chasm deep in the center of who we are.

Maybe we do not speak of it because death will mark all of us, sooner or later.

Or maybe it is unspoken because grief is only the first part of it.

After a time it becomes something less sharp but larger, too,

a more enduring thing called loss.

Perhaps that is why this is the least explored passage:

because it has no end.

The world loves closure,

loves a thing that can, as they say, be gotten through.

This is why it comes as a great surprise to find that loss is forever,

that two decades after the event there are those occasions

when something in you cries out at the continual presence of an absence.

— Anna Quindlen