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Some days, the idea of writing with “quiet humor” feels like a betrayal. On those days, I’d rather scream into the void, shake my fist at the heavens, and let my grief speak plainly. Today is one of those days. It’s the anniversary of my father-in-law’s death.
He’s been gone a long time—decades, in fact. There have been plenty of years when I wasn’t outwardly or consciously affected, but every once in a while, the anniversary date knocks me for a loop. That’s the nature of grief, isn’t it? It fades like fog in the morning sun, only to return unexpectedly, thick and disorienting—with no warning, no explanation, and no relief.
The man was stoic. Cantankerous. Sometimes downright mean. His own kids, even as adults, seemed to be somewhat afraid of him. It didn’t take me long to understand that their fear wasn’t of him, but of disappointing him. He was also sharp, observant, and, in his own guarded way, deeply loyal to those he cared about. Despite his temperament, or maybe because of it, I found something disarmingly honest in our conversations. I never had to carry the burden of him being my daddy. We met as adults on more-or-less equal footing. Turns out, he had a soft spot for people who could give it right back—and I was one of them.
He, like me, was a voracious reader. He was particularly interested in cheap novels and would always hand them off to me when he was done. Often, he marked passages he thought were sensationalized or ridiculous in some other way. We would laugh together over them. I’m teary-eyed now, thinking about those moments.
As an introvert, I don’t connect with a lot of folks, so when I lose one, it hurts – it really hurts. While the initial heart-rending heals with time, some days, that wound just seems fresh all over again. I still have a few of those dog-eared novels. I opened one today, hoping to hear his chuckle rise off the paper. The silence was louder than I imagined.
I miss you, Dad.