Chasing the ghost of my father

Recently I read an article ‘The parent who is left behind’ by Mildred Apenyo. It was a moving piece that reminded me of my loss and sorrow. What about the children that are left behind? How does the grief process affect them? I can only tell you mine.

There I sat in the still of the night, waiting for him to come to me. Praying that he’ll scoop me in his arms one last time then maybe I’d be ready to say goodbye. But I sat and sat. And the only thing that was surrounding me was darkness and the engulfing loneliness that accompanies it.

The realization that I was alone and the world as I knew it had turned upside down. The moon outside was blood red bleeding out as my aching heart did. Then in that moment for the first time I stared grief in the face.

He was gone.

My dearest Daddy was not going to come fetch me again. There would be no more kind words egging me to go on with my life or congratulating me on my shiny report card. The silent figure that sat still in the big old armchair was gone, gone forever.

A knot formed in my tummy slowly rising from my bowels into my throat and choking me till lurched forward. A part of me died that night. The twinkle in my eye extinguished forever as his flame was snuffed out leaving a burning hole where my passion used to be.

Eight years later, I loom in the darkness wandering about in search of him, longing for the part of me that died that night. I cannot sleep; I cannot go on because I am trapped there: a 19 year old Daddy’s girl waiting for him to come to me, to pick me up like he did when I was little.

Once I was accidentally locked out of the house at night. I banged my little fists furiously against the door and cried till Daddy came to fetch me. Within seconds he was there, scooped me in his arms and wiped my tears. Immediately I felt snug, warm and protected. He was going to be my hero forever.

Then when I was a little older he would shuffle his feet, putting his one good leg forward and dragging the bad one with a grimace. He was my shuffling hero who hobbled and gingerly maneuvered himself into a seat to clap for me at a school award assembly. With one leg stretched out and his crutch gently resting on his good knee, he would smile at me from across the school hall.

I remember the card he gave me when I was awarded first position in my class “I am proud of you” it read.  A beautiful peacock with a magnificent display of feathered glory stared back at me. An image I’d carry for the rest of my life. My father was proud of me! My insignificant little bit of work in the third grade: being first in class made him the happiest man. My little heart was bursting with pride.

That was when I knew that I was special. I had value in a man’s eyes.

But the bubble burst then the moon turned red and the rivers turned poisonous. Reality pierced the daydreamer’s heart.  There was no more protection. No more love. No more patience. No more sustenance.

I tried to search for him in the arms of men but failed miserably. In a mangled heap at the edge of sanity, bleeding out, I conceded: I was left behind. Alone.