Father's Day 2005

A deep river called Sorrow
runs through the day's reunion.

The children can play
making their happy waves on the surface
with a bike, a few balls and a stockpile of water balloons.
Carefree, they enjoy a day with new friends.

But
no matter how promising the BBQ,
or plentiful the beer,
the undercurrents of sadness
and our deep sense of loss
pulls strongly at the grown-ups
who try to keep their chins above
the river's flow.

As we struggle for breath
and remind our hearts to take another beat,
cards get signed
and a gift is passed
for the last week expectant
no longer dad-to-be,

today the joy of another's child-on-the-way
is awkward and quenched.
the other 1st time uncle/dad/grandpas-to-be
will have time later to do their hopeful dreaming.

We made it through the day floating together on that river.
We made it mostly because we could find some joy in having so much to
catch up on.

Telling and hearing of missed milestones.
proposals,
weddings,
first houses,
and careers.
What is it like living in the cities that we call "home?"

It's a long wide and deep river.
There are no shortcuts to the journey of grief.
And this Father's Day falls
as early rapids in the river.

Jade Aiden never had to ride this river.
Can a day be called "a journey?"
Yet the baby so quickly here and gone
draws his family together.
There is a new depth of love and appreciation
for each other,
for each day,
and for live
though he so briefly lived.

Dear family,
Another week has gone by still mourning your loss.
And besides our Father's Day gathering,
it's not a journey we get to take with you.
We've made our way up the coast for our family vacation.
My folks are back to Orange County.
You are still on my heart. I think about you often.
The TV shows, the meals get eaten, the world keeps spinning
even when you feel like everything should just stop.

The long wide and deep river keeps rolling.
Please remember to be patient and gentle to yourselves.
There's no instant cure for the pain from your great loss.
Sure, there are loads of little tributaires that lead to dead ends--
diversions or denial keep you out of the white water rapids.
Sometimes you'll feel that you may drown.
Knuckle down and hold on tight.
Others have been down this river before and survived.

Keep holding on tight to one another as you ride through the grief.
Keep a travel log of the journey. Writing is therapeudic.
If you feel like telling me,
Let me know where this river is taking you.