4/22/25

My father died 45 years ago today at age 47. I was 18.

That event shaped me in immeasurable ways, and in his absence I have borne a deep wound, a hole in my heart that I have struggled to fill. I am one of the few tangibles left of his legacy and have tried and failed many times over to live in a way that honors his memory.

For years after he died, I had a recurring dream. He would appear at the door of our house in Virginia and knock. I would open it and exclaim, “Dad, where have you been?”

He was downcast, sullen, and silent. This made sense to me in my waking hours because I had witnessed his sadness and anxiety surrounding his declining health and impending death. He never said as much to me, but I believe he was disappointed in a god whom he had served wholeheartedly who, in return, was breaking his heart and letting him down.

In those dreams, he never said a word, but turned and walked away, dejected, perhaps at his inability to cross the door’s threshold or express in words his sorrow at having to leave us behind.

After several years of this, one night I had the same dream but with a different ending. Instead of sullen silence, my father was shining, smiling, and singing in a language I didn’t understand. He turned and walked away, and I never had that dream again.

I am agnostic as to what that dream means, whether it is a sign of struggle and triumph in another realm, simply a storm of chemicals and electricity in my brain marking my own acceptance and healing, or a little of both.

It’s an impenetrable mystery, and I’m content, peaceful even, to leave it as it is.