The fog is lifting

My father died in late September, two weeks before what would have been my parents' 50^th wedding anniversary.

When I was a child, my dad was the mostly silent presence in the recliner at the end of the room every evening. He was the keeper of the belt that was occasionally threatened, but rarely used. He was the builder of stilts, the cranker of ice cream, the by-hand cracker of walnuts, the ultimate master of the pocket knife, who sharpened his square pencils without fear or hesitation.

When he did speak, it was because he had something important to contribute. He didn't spend words on idle chit chat. He kept watch over me while I watched him build cabinets and houses, guiding my hand on the hammer when I decided he needed a six-year-old's help. He sat behind each of his grandchildren on the lawn tractor so that they could drive it. For hours. Even when the grass didn't need to be mowed.

A couple of years ago, he was diagnosed with depression. The antidepressant he was prescribed brought out a father I had never known. This dad cracked jokes, snuck up on mom for stealth hugs, and sat with me on the porch for hours talking about life. This was dad projected in full color and surround sound. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

I am grateful that I had a chance to get to know him better, that we had time to watch deer nibble on fallen pears while we talked about the world. I am grateful that I had a chance to see the mischievous glint that always resided in his eyes brought to full expression.

We knew his death was coming, but I wasn't ready.

I had grieved before for more distant family members, but I was in no way prepared for the intensity of my anticipatory grief as his illness reached its last stages. Nor did I expect the lingering sadness that has clouded my days since his actual death.

I had always thought that grief was something that hit hard, then steadily faded, leaving one able to remember the loved one without such an intense feeling of loss. It certainly hasn't been a steady process for me. It's taking so much longer than I ever expected, and the feelings crest and crash like waves.

I still go about my life. I work. I play. I spend too much time on the computer.

It's just that all these things take place a a slight remove. There is a feeling of distance, a detachment from daily routine. It's like watching my life happen through a dense fog.

Some things are beginning to register with greater intensity: the sharp smell of a freshly picked lemon, the comforting warmth of a throw blanket on a chilly evening, the sound of shared laughter.

I feel like I am waking from a deep sleep, or coming home from a long journey. These small joys are reminders that somewhere the sun still shines, that birds still sing, and that the fog will lift eventually.