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Photograph by Matilda Angus taken 6 years ago

The Bustle in a House

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,--

The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

                                                                - Emily Dickinson

(See the previous post Leaving)

It is the morning after my father’s death. I am alone in his room in the retirement home packing all his clothes and other belongings. 

I cannot look at his slippers, or his shirts, his glasses, without seeing and smelling him in them. A deep, deep sorrow washes over me.

He had many shortcomings. With his volatile temper he ruled our house and our youth. He wanted to be in control for as long as possible and found it almost impossible to adjust to any situation where he didn’t have the final say. In recent years we had many heated arguments over him not willing to accept old age and the practicalities of the situation. He never really warmed up to the idea of being in a retirement home. All this had a big impact on my life. There were many times when I resented him for that.

But he was also more than that. He instilled in me a love for knowledge and the treasures of an inquisitive mind. He shared with me the pleasures of quick wit and the humorous in a situation, often of a dry nature. He taught me what I know about engineering and steel work in all its facets. Whenever I am confronted with a problem of a practical nature, I hear his voice guiding me to solutions. Doing things properly and pride in a job well done are things I learned from him.

In the last few years he and I had to venture into terrain that was daunting and challenging where, given the choice, none of us would have wanted to go. Or maybe we had the choice and I chose to face his temper, his fear, his vulnerability and everything those issues brought to the fore and stirred in me. I had to experience firsthand that love and care are often not the easy route and that the people for whom it is intended seemingly display no understanding or appreciation. 

It awakened emotions in me and revealed aspects of myself that I wasn’t previously aware of and in many cases not very proud of. In the process he gave me the opportunity for deep inner work and situations that actually asked more adjustments from me than what I expected from him. Often unknowingly he guided me into the gift of growth and forgiveness. For that I’ll always be thankful to him.

You settle into living, privately being grateful for small inner victories and small steps of personal progress. There is no expecting anything other than that. For that reason I deeply cherish the exchange we had late Saturday afternoon. Like a small boy he was sitting on the side of his bed leaning against my hand holding his back, his feet dangling while obediently drinking the glass of medication I had handed him. Between small sips he stopped and as if lost in relaxed thought he said to me: “My child, I love you very much.” I think it is the first time he had said that in as many words to me. I was so astonished and overwhelmed by this precious moment that it took me a few seconds to respond: “I love you too, Dad.” He died very suddenly the following afternoon.

I’m sure Emily wouldn’t mind the fact that I make a small adjustment to the general meaning of her poem. I haven’t put love away with my father’s other possessions. I’ll hold onto it until eternity. I need it. 

George