Dear Father

 

Dear Father,

You were so tired and fragile; so ready long before your body ever let go. It hurt my heart to see you that way, but we both knew that that is what happens when time doesn’t stop. You grow old.

        Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

There is an end to all of us, but not to time. And even when you were taking your last breath, time didn’t hesitate. Its hands ticking away, spinning and consuming, without ever giving you a thought.

        But I think about you every day.

I search for you in the rays of the sun and in the wispy clouds streaking across the blue sky. Among the delicate flakes of snow drifting to the ground and in the sheets of falling rain that mirror my tears.

        And I wonder where you are.

I call for you. I listen for your voice in the wind, in the chirping of the birds, but I hear nothing. And as wave after wave of sorrow crashes over me, I fall. I struggle but can’t rise under the weight of my grief. Everything is hollow. All I can do is lie here, thinking of you as sadness runs down my cheeks. I’m stuck, stuck in that last moment of our lives together.

As I walk out of the hospital room, I look back over my shoulder and say, “Love you dad.” You blow me a kiss and say, “Love you too.” Who was I to know that that would be the last time I ever heard your voice or saw your smile.

    I wish I could have stopped time.

I would freeze it. Make the world stop turning. If I could have made time stand still even for a single second, I would have been happy because I would have had that extra moment with you. I would have held your hand and rubbed your forehead to help you sleep like I had done so many times before. I would tell you everything in my heart. I will make sure you know how much I love you.

But that moment is forever lost, and I am angry. I will always regret not telling you, but I think you knew. I think you’ve always known that you were my first love. You were my daddy, and I was your little girl. And you will always hold a special place in my heart.

You lay so still, so small in the bed. I thought you were sleeping, I hoped for it. I kissed your forehead and whispered, “Hi Dad,” but you did not answer. I begged for you to open your eyes, to take my hand in yours, but you didn’t. I listened for your breath and felt for your heartbeat, but your body had grown cold. Your spirit had gone. The dad I love was no longer there, just his shell. Time continues, but I have not.

    I have cried every day since.

It’s difficult to navigate a space and time that doesn’t include you. I see a bird, it snows, or something else insignificant happens and I want to tell you, yet you're not here. I tell you anyway and hope you can hear me, but it’s not the same. I wish I knew where you were. Are you safe? Do you get to pitch horseshoes and go fishing? Is Punky asleep in your lap? Can you see us?

I put on a brave face for Mom. I help her through her grief, hugging her while she breaks down, but all the while trying to hide my own pain. I laugh when I feel like crying. I keep it hidden and tell everyone I’m OK, but I’m not. I have never experienced such a profound loss as I have with your passing, and I have no idea how to make myself feel better or in which direction to go.

Someone told me that time heals. That time will lessen the pain, so now, I no longer wish for time to stand still. I want it to speed forward. To blast me into a future where I don’t cry every day and into a time when my heart doesn’t hurt. 

    But right now, though, it’s hard to imagine.

The cavern of loss is too great, and I wonder how it will ever be filled. Someday I hope I can think of you, look at your photos, and talk about you without tears, but for today, I’ll let myself cry. I'll try again tomorrow to be strong.

    I love you dad and miss you beyond words.

         Always in our Hearts. 🧡

Ronald Ray Costa

04/01/1943 – 12/03/2023