The events of the last few weeks, surrounding my father’s passing, seem to be moving further away in my mind as if I’m watching the city become smaller when I watch out the window as I fly home. First, the reality is there, but the tangibility isn’t. I can no more touch those last days with Dad than I can reach out the plane and touch the thousands of lights on the grid of the Chicago streets. And just like when I land, I have some semblance of what things will be like, but don’t know for sure until I reach the driveway; similarly I see the future without Dad here.

Though I’ve spoken to him more continuously since he’s been gone than I have in a long time, the indefinite wait for a response is what will make this so different. No quick phone call to confirm that I’ve wired this three-way switch correctly. No casual mutual discussion of what it’s like to be a father watching your children do what they’re doing, as we would muse together on occasion. No telling him, “Dad, I’m not going there right now,” when he wants to push his position when I just wanted to keep him informed.

I certainly know that his few moments with me alone gave me great assurance of his life to be, and I am very, very grateful for that. Always giving us what we need, those Fathers of mine. Even if it’s not exactly how I would want it.

So it’s all good. I know I’ll get the chance to hear his reply eventually. I’m sure he’s not even having anywhere near the problem with people talking to him and not being able to respond, that he did in his last three days – and that was the only time I can remember that happening – what, with him now being in that place where virtue has been (or is being) refined.

Like Mom said, it won’t be ok; It’ll just be different.