April 6.
The day my father called & told me he had cancer.
June 10
The day he died.
January 22
His birthday.
I will have these dates, like beads on a rosary, tied around my heart for the rest of my life. I’m glad today’s anniversary didn’t create paralysis, albeit, a little fluff of down, some sadness, soaking up my residual sadness of last week, when we went through layoffs. I used my father’s death as an excuse at the time, when a co-worker walked in on me at my desk, dabbing my eyes. Mentally, I kind of gave dad a begrudging grin, like, “thanks, man”…. and I also felt guilty. Lying to cover up what was going on, doing it by using the most sacredly painful piece of my life. But I’ve no poker face and I had to say something.
So, tonight, when I walked into Panera to pick up a loaf of bread, I got the sesame semolina. It was his favorite. And I smiled to myself, wistfully. It is in those small moments I hear his voice, just the most ordinary of sentences or comments (“Oh, I love that bread.”). I love that bread, too, I love it more because you loved it, and can we pretend for just half a second that I’ll call and tell you, “Dad, we had the semolina, man that is such good stuff, I’m so glad you told me about it” and then I have to remember that there will never be another phone call, that I just have to be happy James and I love this bread, and I’ll mention it was his favorite, and life will move on. Because that’s what life does.
My melancholy. The sweetness of love mixes with the acrid memories of sadness. Despite grief’s sharp, astringent bite, I am glad to find there is more love in the glass each year.