In the Greek Orthodox tradition, the soul ascends to heaven after wandering the earth for 40 days.
This week marked the 40th day since my dad's death. Even though he wasn't Greek or even a believer, I like to imagine my dad spending the 40 days rattling around his old New York haunts - drinking a beer at the White Horse Tavern, sipping a martini at the King Cole Bar, admiring a Holbein at the Met, picking up bagels at H&H, going for a run in Riverside Park. I like to think he's at the Little House doing the things he liked to do - pruning the cherry trees, erecting the flag on Memorial Day, inspecting the roof, taking a cold dip in the ocean. I've been comforted by the idea that my dad has been puttering around. I've felt his presence around me and I'm reluctant to let his spirit go, even if it means he gets to shoot the breeze with Geoffrey Chaucer, W.B. Yeats and Sam Cooke in front of the pearly gates.
The 40 day mark is a milestone - it's the end of the official mourning period, the last day we wear black. It signals that his soul is now in repose - and that it's time for the rest of us to stumble blindly through the next phase of our fleeting lives, as impossible as that seems. I've found myself retreating from family this week - I can't breathe when other people's grief takes up all the oxygen. I need to figure out how to grieve on my own.
Saturday is my dad's memorial. I dread it with all my heart. Despite having three decades to think about it, I haven't written my eulogy. Its weight crushes me. I can't seem to do justice to the father I loved so much. Somehow I have to get through what feels like an insurmountable task - please keep your fingers crossed that I don't disgrace myself.
xo
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