I stare at the designed concrete in front of me. “In loving memory of …” I read as my family lit candles and prepared offerings like we do every year.
The beginning of November always floods cemeteries with visitors who come to sit with their beloved — or at least with the ever-present grief of losing them and the nostalgia of having them once. I may not know where death took my father, but I do know his grave was the place where I last saw him.
Beyond tradition, perhaps I visit this place for the hope that I’ll find him again. But he is not here.
We dedicate one of 365 days to visit those who have passed. We spend time where they last lay to recall moments of their life, to tell stories of ours after them so they could somehow still be part of it, and to have even a glimpse of our world when they were still here. My father’s friends still bring him beer when they visit his grave. They give him a bottle and leave his cup filled like they did before. We cling to any chance to be close to them, because how could we ever endure the heartbreak of losing them forever?
But as I watch the candles melt, I know that they are not here.
The dead are much more consistent than the living. They visit us 365 of 365 days. You can see them in every turn and corner if you look for them.
My dad is not in this cemetery, but I see him in his basketball jerseys where he had our names printed instead of his own. My dad is also at family parties he never had the chance to attend but would definitely have been better with his jokes, songs and games.
He visits me in our old house where we last lived with him. Even a year after he passed away, everything remained right where he left them as if he might need them when he comes back home. Though I know he won’t.
He was gone, but he remained in parts of the house he tried to fix, and his favorite spots I hope he knew belonged to him. So when we moved houses, I feared my dad would come by me less. It was a space he had never been in, a house he had never called home. But when we settled, he was still there — in the bigger kitchen I know he would have loved.
My dad says “hi” to me through my siblings’ kindness and my ability to hold alcohol. I feel his love even through my mother’s bravery to raise us without him. I know he visits her, too, whenever she sees us. He drops by when I study as I head for a graduation I know he could not attend but where he would have been proud of me like he always used to be.
My late grandfather, whom I never met, still stops by when I see my mom because she looks exactly like him. My friend’s late grandfather still visits her when she eats baby back ribs. I never knew why, but I am glad she still gets to meet him through that food.
Grief makes us hold on to invisible strings we hope are never cut by death. When November begins, we are a whole country of sorrow that transforms longing into celebration and prayers. The candles have completely melted and the rotation of stories we tell every year have all been told again. Yet, my father is still not here. My heart breaks no more than it did when we lost him because I’ve come to realize that he visits me all year long.
And I stare again at this designed concrete for the loving memory of someone not here.
I guess to lose a beloved is to find pieces of them in a world that continued to breathe after they didn’t. To make peace with the distance is to hold them closer, however we can.
See you at home, Pa.
