I am sitting beside a dresser as I write this. It was made by my Father. A thing of beauty, and functionality. I can reach out my hand and rest it on the warmth of the wood. The solid comfort of substance. Inside the things that dress me, and make me look a certain way. This is how I look, and am judged, by those that see me on a superficial level.

It reminds me of last April, when I sat beside the bed my Father was in, and watched him die. As I sat there I always had my hand on a part of his body. I hope that someone does that for me, when I am at that time in my journey. Touching my Father was an odd connection. He very rarely touched me as I grew up. He must have touched me, but not in an affectionate way, as far as I remember.

I started giving my Father hugs when I got sober from drugs. What a strange thing ! He was like a board, weakly patting me with his hand, as I embraced him, and said I loved him. It got better as time went along, but never really a comfortable act for him to do.

Back to touching my Father on his death bed. We were there for 8 days, and he lost a lot of weight. By the end, when I touched his leg, it was like touching wood. Only his bony structure left. Like touching the wood of the dresser. I looked at him that way, at the end. His drawers had all been emptied. His mind was gone, his ability to walk, talk, and function, a thing of the past. I think that his essence, the love that he was, even if it was unacknowledged by him, is still around.  Maybe it is the sky, when I search it. maybe the confidence that I have today, possibly the crow that sails over my head.

Honestly, I don’t know, but I have a strong feeling that when I reach out and touch the wood of that dresser I am feeling his Love. He didn’t know how to say it, show it, or give it, as far as I could tell. Maybe he just put it into that dresser. I’d like to think so.

I miss him.