In memory of my Father
I recently have begun a project writing notes about my experience of my father’s death four years ago. Every week between 2009 and 2016 he wrote me a letter when I moved away from home. It was how we stayed connected and showered me with love and protection from a far. He in turn taught me dedication, tradition, reliability. What he gifted to me in those years I will carry with me across my life. Although my responses were not quite as regular, I read every letter, revisited some, and always looked eagerly for that little bit of normalcy in the mail. The only times that he didn’t write regularly to me was in the month leading up into his death.
He began his letters in my first year away at a boarding school in Western Massachusetts. After I received his letters in my #1972 mail box in college for four years. Next was for a year on Melwood Avenue, my first adult apartment and then a year on Gross Street where his final letters came to rest. Every time I moved he asked me for my address and there my letters would be without fail before I’d even set up my home.
This project is a way to preserve his tradition while also revisiting my notes from such an emotionally intense time. In the year since I began this project I have returned to both painful and treasured memories and have healed the space in my heart. This time spent reflecting has brought peace where there was once so much regret. My intention was to heal the hole that was left in my heart when he passed by patching it up with his own love and lessons.
