In Good Company

Some people stay close even when no longer near.

There are things I remember about my father without having to think about them.

The sound of his voice. His expressions. The things he found funny. Sometimes all it takes is a familiar song, and I can almost hear him again.

Other memories take me by surprise.

I might be in the middle of something entirely ordinary when a thought of him arrives. Sometimes I smile, and there is a warmth that comes with remembering him. I think of how much I love him, how fortunate I was to have him as my father. There is a quiet peace in that.

Other times, the grief hits so hard that my eyes flood without warning. A lump rises in my throat. And a deep emptiness opens in my chest.

So much of missing someone happens privately, in moments that pass unseen. I can be surrounded by people, carrying on with my day, while it happens and no one notices.

And then there are days made for sharing it.

Since losing him, I've begun observing Día de los Muertos. Last year, I walked in the procession for him. This year, I built my first ofrenda.

There is something about having a day set aside for him, among others who have come for someone of their own.

Photographs held close, music playing, families walking together. People gathering, each with someone on their mind. A story might bring laughter to one person and tears to another.

I like that there is room for both.

No one has to explain why a particular song matters, or why a photograph is being carried so carefully.

For a while, I don't feel quite so alone in missing him.

But most days, he is with me in quieter ways. The things I remember without trying. The moments when I wish I could turn to him and tell him something.

And sometimes, without anything particular happening, I feel close to him, even if for a moment.

In remembrance,
S. Marie
C U M I C H E