The Most Difficult Father's Day Of All
It's 2013 and both of my dads are gone.
Technically both my dads were gone in 2012, but my step-dad Charlie, had just died in May that year. My biological dad, the Colonel, died some years before in 1998.
Right after my step-dad died, I was in the throes of care-taking preparations. My sister and I were packing my parent's belongings and moving my Mom to an assisted-living facility. This was my dad's wish for her now that he could no longer protect her.
We were planning his memorial service, arranging finances, contacting insurance companies, and packing up his belongings. All these activities consumed my energy and thoughts.
In essence, I was still caring for him. The physical bond was so recent, it made it seem like he was still near by. Details, planned and unplanned, sprouted up at every turn. The days raced past Father's Day as we prepared his memorial.
My Dad's Shirts
I saved quite a few of my dad's shirts, even though I wasn't sure what I was going to do with them. It was hard to part with all of his clothes.
As we cleaned out my parent's home, I had a moment alone in the closet. I held his clothes and directed energy with The Radiance Technique® (TRT®).
There's something about their clothes, isn't there?
I kept some shirts that I figured I would alter and wear. One short sleeve shirt I especially like was too long for me. I finally had the hem and sleeves shortened. I like slipping it on and thinking of him.
Making Memory Quilts
I attended a quilt show sponsored by The Napa Valley Quilters in California. A quilter displayed several Memory Quilts that were made for a family from the shirts of their deceased father/husband. A way to remember.
As a quilter, I have picked up my dad's shirts several times with just that thought in mind, but somehow I still can't bear to cut them up.
I just can't. Not yet.
The thought of cutting his shirts into pieces is somehow too harsh for me. Perhaps that cutting act invokes a sense of finality that I am unwilling to face.
Becoming An Adult Orphan
The circle of life. If all goes as planned, (bearing in mind that plans frequently go awry), our parents will pass before us.
I probably shouldn't complain about the circle of life that is far bigger than any of my personal issues. It makes me sound ungracious. How can I fuss when I've been blessed to have my dads at all?
But, I don't like it. I miss being able to talk to my dads and sharing with them.
When questions arise, neither one is here to ask. Even when I didn't have any questions, it was reassuring to know my dads were there – just in case.
With our longer life spans, we are experiencing extended cycles of being an adult orphan when our parents are gone. When the numbers of your heart-tribe go down, you realize how small you are. We don't talk about it much at the risk of seeming self-indulgent, but the feelings are real nonetheless.
Body And Soul, Co-Exist Side By Side
When I remember that my dads, Charlie and the Colonel, are not just my dads but indeed their own souls on their own unique journeys, I am comforted.
That which is born of the flesh is flesh, that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit.
I can hold each of them in my heart as they continue their journeys into this vast unknown universe. Using The Radiance Technique® at The Second Degree level, I am able to continue to support them outside of time and space.
With the use of TRT® hands-on, I can help myself through the grief.
The Tapestries Of Our Lives
We are merely dancing photons of light creating gossamer tapestries together. The ephemeral moments that I shared with my fathers are woven into colorful father-daughter patterns.
I'm old enough now to know that time will ease the pain and sorrow. Over time, you invariably get used to things and how they are. But, as long as I remain on the planet for this lifetime, the little girl in me will miss them.
A little girl, no matter how old she is, still misses her daddy.
Father's Day Without My Dads
Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
I remember and love both of you and I am grateful.
And yes, I miss you.