A Reflection on Fifteen Years

May is a turbulent month for me and my family - busy on the calendar, yes, but emotionally much more so. A lot of great things have happened in May, for instance the births of my great-gran, grandma, and sister. Sadly, the month also has a dark cloud hanging over it, just out of sight, though the awareness of its presence never goes away. It’s been 15 years since we lost my dad, which has somehow simultaneously dragged on and flown by. There are so many questions I wish I’d asked, so many events I wish he’d been there for.

Births Book releases
Deaths Movies
Graduations Anniversaries
Weddings Concerts
Vacations Dances

People still walk on eggshells around me when the subject comes up. Maybe they sense that the grief, though vaguely dissipated, is still there and always will be. When you lose someone you love, someone who meant the whole world to you, it stays with you (I’m assuming) forever. Just out of sight, though the awareness of its presence never goes away.

You learn to live with it. You push aside notions of what your life was going to be, what their life was going to be, and you place your grief in a box that sits in the front of the closet. Over time, the box shifts. Some days, it’s far away in the back of the closet, and you know it’s there but you can put your focus on other things - for a while. Other days, the box is back in front, and it’s a bit in the way but not enough to derail you. Then there are days when the box is open, contents scattered on the floor, and it seems impossible to clean the mess. It feels impossible to think you’ll ever get everything back inside, but you do, eventually, and life goes on. You keep moving forward. The box keeps moving, too. You can’t throw it away or donate it, and it follows you if you move. It will never be gone, only in a different spot. Grief is strange that way. “Time heals all wounds” doesn’t apply. Grief leaves scar tissue.

Despite this, the pain and the tears and the days it feels impossible to do even the simplest of tasks, I am also grateful. Not everyone is lucky enough to have the kind of dad I got to have. He has given me so much, and though losing him has been the most difficult experience I may ever endure, it’s also made me strong. It’s shown me I can handle anything else that comes along. On top of all that, I know he’s still looking out for us somehow. It’s a feeling I’ve had for 15 years, and it’s not just wishful thinking. I know he’s still here in spirit, and on the darkest days, that knowledge brings a sense of peace. He believed he had guardian angels, and now I believe he’s ours.

Grief and peace are both eternal. They may coexist, but grief isn’t as powerful, so once you allow yourself to make peace with your grief, it can no longer control you. It’s an ongoing process, however. It probably always will be, and that’s okay. Please don’t feel the need to walk on metaphorical eggshells. Talking about my dad brings me joy now, even if it’s bittersweet. He was someone who deserves to be remembered. He deserves to have his story told, all the way up until the end. So ask me how he died, but more importantly, ask me how he lived.

He lived with great joy and love.
He gave his family everything he had.
He went on adventures.
He was a huge Tolkien fan, and made sure his kids knew all about Middle Earth.
He loved to golf, and he was good at it.
He was an artist, a builder, a musician.
He had a contagious laugh.
He sneezed extra loud on purpose, in equal measure to make us laugh and to annoy my mother.
He could impersonate Yoda, Hagrid, Dobby, and Gollum so well you’d hardly be able to tell the difference between him and the actors.
He was silly, kind, funny, brilliant, and full of wisdom and love.
He was everything I hope to be and then some.
He was a husband, a father, a brother, an uncle, a nephew, a son, and a friend, and we still miss him every day.

Rest well, dad, until we meet again.

Robert Bisceglia
Nov. 12, 1952 - May 14, 2004