A year ago I went up to Washington to help my father-in-law. His lymphoma came out of remission and moved into his brain. He could no longer drive, so I drove the 62 mile round-trip to take him for radiation treatment. We had a ritual. Before embarking south on Highway 20, we would pull up to a drive-through coffee stand, which are ubiquitous in slate-skied northwestern Washington. He would order a latte with whipped cream; I ordered my usual black coffee. He always treated. It was a precious time; I got a chance to know him better, even in our comfortable silences. I felt deep in my being that it would be his last Christmas.
Since his death in April, ordinary life unfolds, dotted with bigger events, and throughout this we walk around that space he left behind. We may not talk about the loss often, but as a bass note thrums underneath melody, the presence of his absence is felt daily. I know that’s an odd phrase, but that is how I experience it. I don’t simply experience his absence. It is more prominent than that, for me. His absence is palpable, and therefore it creates a presence of its own.
I do enjoy Christmastime. This year is no exception. Yet this year my joy is tinted with sadness. I run up against the reality of his death in every conversation about gifts (he would call me to find out what my husband wanted, and we would pick his brain about what to get my mother-in-law). Every time I eat dark chocolate, I think of him, because we shared a passion for that. There is no denying the fact that I will not hear his laugh or get a bear hug from him this year. I cherished his equanimity and appetite for life.
This post, then, is dedicated to my father-in-law. I miss him, and my celebration of Yule is both bitter and sweet. I also dedicate this post to my mother and father, who each lost a parent at young ages (20 and 14 respectively), and to my sister-in-law L and my friend Mapelba, who lost their mothers too soon. I am learning what they have lived with for years: to accept, if not embrace, the presence of a loved one’s absence.
Wonderful eulogy! Time spenting driving/riding together must have spawned a bond that probably had no other way out of the seedling idea. My Dad died 11 years ago next April. I still very much feel the “presence of his absence.”
This is so very sweet and touching. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Beautifully said, Kathryn. And such a fine tribute to your father-in-law. He must have been a lovely man.
“but as a bass note thrums underneath melody, the presence of his absence is felt daily. I know that’s an odd phrase, but that is how I experience it. I don’t simply experience his absence. It is more prominent than that, for me. His absence is palpable, and therefore it creates a presence of its own.”
So well said Kathryn. 6 years ago I lost my youngest brother in a trucking accident, and this describes the way I still feel about his absence in my life. The intense grief and sadness is no longer with me, but is absence will always be part of who I am now. Your words describe is to beautiful and accurate. Thanks, once again, for sharing your heart with us. jackie
What an utterly beautiful tribute; you made him come alive for me. It helps that I am from Washington too–although more like Mid-West Tacoma area. (and I love espresso!) Every Christmas, I remember my younger brother who killed himself at 24 and how he could uncannily guess every gift he was getting by holding,and shaking it. I still laugh about the time that he and my other younger brother(also deceased) threw a wrapped nerf football back and forth in our basement before we opened the packages. My mom is not known for disguising gifts very well. I hope that for the sake of this wonderful man that you find some joy in this holiday season.