Wild thistle and purple loosestrife accent the edge of wilderness that borders the cemetery where my Dad’s ashes reside. It still holds true that I don’t quite feel my Dad’s presence at his final resting place, but there is one corner, at the bottom of the hill, anchored by a few ancient evergreens and a large poplar, where I sense his spirit. It would be more characteristic of him to watch quietly from a distance, his arms crossed and observing without comment or disturbance. This is also the prettiest part of the cemetery, far from the columbarium that actually contains him, far from the road where drivers unknowingly rush by such beauty. Invariably, I will stop the car at this space, and take a moment to walk around and see what is in bloom. 

Earlier in the year, there were sweetly-scented wild roses. Gone to hips now, there was still some summer lingering in the heat and humidity – the bold color of thistle flowers echoed by the invasive loosestrife. Moreover, there was a stand of wild raspberries, their thorny branches barely dissuading whatever pulled most of the fruit from these little cradles. 

I took a little more time on this day, walking further along the edge of where the manicured lawn ended and a bit of wilderness began. That little island of brush to the right in the photo below was surrounded by a path of mowed lawn, and I walked between the mounds of green. Within that island something rustled in the shadows. It sounded larger than a chipmunk or squirrel – I’m accustomed to their size and heft – and this was distinctly larger. It was substantial in the way it made movements and noise in the brush, and after I walked past it, as if sensing I wasn’t looking anymore, it made its move and bolted out of the island and into the wilderness, climbing up the tree before I could get a look at it. It had the speed of a squirrel, but I still don’t think that’s what it was. Scanning and searching the branches of the tree, I couldn’t find it. In a breeze, the undulating silvery undersides of leaves masked any movement I might find. 

Regardless of what animal skittishly ran away, I was clearly not alone, and there was comfort in that – comfort in the mystery of life, and death. On the night that my Dad died, I remember seeing a number of rabbits along the way – at least nine or ten from our drive from Loudonville to Amsterdam – and it seemed like they were seeing him off. I’d never seen so many in a single night. My Dad always loved animals – all kinds – and it spoke to his genuine care for those who needed help in some way – the very tenet of what made a doctor a good doctor. Since the night he left, I’ve had several encounters with animals that made me believe there was more going on than what I once thought I understood or believed. On this day, feeling that I was still being watched by something in the trees, I embraced the mystery. 

Dear Dad – 

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. 

That’s a good thing, and I want you to know that I’m ok.

When I feel people are around me, I tend to write to them less, and for the past year since you’ve been gone, you’ve never been far from my mind. In some ways, the love I have had for you has grown. Somehow, you are with me always, and that’s the most surprisingly comforting discovery I’ve made since last August. I didn’t know it could be like that.

On the morning of your funeral service there was a deluge of torrential rain. The summer had been so sunny and beautiful that this weather felt suddenly shocking, albeit fitting. As we entered the church, I wasn’t sure how I would make it through the day, but as we walked up the aisle and approached the altar, a feeling of calm came over me. Your picture was there, beside the Wedgwood piece that Mom had selected to hold your ashes – a piece that matched the Wedgwood urn where Gram was. Around this was an arc of white flowers, like some healing moonlight garden. It was such a scene of peace and calm that I would look at it whenever the parade of people exhausted me. I had never imagined that there would be any calm or beauty in losing a loved one, yet that’s what I felt for most of the service. 

It was near the end when I realized that this would be the last time our family would be together. You, Mom, Paul and I had spent so many Sunday mornings in church together, so many Christmas Eves and Easter Sundays, and now here we were seeing you off on the final morning we would be intact as a family. That’s when I started crying, just as we had to walk past all the people and leave you in the hands of a funeral director.

The rain had stopped. Mom and Andy sat in the front seats of the car while I sat alone in the back. We would go to the columbarium next, but this is where it felt like I was saying goodbye, because I didn’t think we would ever be together as a family again. Our time at your resting place was blessedly brief, and then we went back to Mom’s house. After changing out of my black suit in the room where you transitioned out of this world, I didn’t know quite how to proceed. Yet family and friends trickled in, and what was now only Mom’s house was suddenly becoming Mom’s home, and still I felt you with us. We were all there – in fact there were more of us than ever before, all crammed into this cozy space, and spilling out into the backyard. All the love we felt for you was still there, perhaps even more resonant when surrounded by all the other people who loved you in your life. Even after everyone left, and in all the days that followed, whenever Mom and Paul and I found ourselves together, you were somehow still with us. 

I suppose that’s why I don’t write to you as much as I did when you were here – I still feel you with me, closer than ever, even if you’ve been gone for a year. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, and maybe it’s just some mental trick that keeps me from sliding into despondent paralysis, but I genuinely believe our loved ones don’t ever leave us, they simply exist in different ways – in the making of a batch of asado, in a Harry Belafonte song, in the planting of a tomato – in all the ways you were a father to me. 

I love you Dad.

The room where my father died is not haunted in the way my childhood self envisioned it would be. It holds no frightening ghosts or terrifying memories, strange as that may seem. It is a place of calm, the space where we shared our last moments with Dad, where he took his final breath and left his physical form behind almost exactly a year ago. After serving him for 92 years, it was time. 

In his final rally, that sacred period of time in which someone will return to their usual self right before they’re about to die, Dad sounded like his old self. He engaged with us all, making mostly coherent sense, even if the topics varied wildly, as if dictated by someone anxiously waiting for him on the other side. ‘Please wait,’ I prayed to myself and whomever might be listening, ‘Please give us a little more time.’ On one of those last days, I sat beside his bed, holding his hand and gently talking. As was most often the case, just being beside my Dad was all the strength and comfort I needed. 

He was talking about Sister Margaret, who was one of the nuns he worked with when he first started at St. Mary’s hospital. He had always been equal parts annoyed, at odds, and in awe of those nuns, whose religious affiliation proved both impressive and problematic. Somehow, he managed to get along with Sister Margaret, despite how difficult others sometimes found her to be. Mentioning how she didn’t always talk to everyone, but would engage if someone spoke to her first, he remembered how they had never had a fight. Sister Margaret has been gone for many more years so I have no way of knowing how true that statement might be. At infrequent points my Dad had occasional run-ins with certain people, even though he was mostly adored by all the hospital staff. In these last hours, he seemed to be reliving his early days at the hospital, which was one of his favorite places to be. Dad enjoyed work the way the rest of us enjoy vacation – he was just wired that way, from the moment he and his brothers were moved during the Japanese occupation and separated from their family. You don’t grow up in the Philippines in the time that my Dad did without learning about work and drive and dedication to bettering yourself and your family. 

Without any transition or prompt, he moved into talking about a parade. Something about an MCU parade, and I thought he was talking about the Macy’s Day Parade, so I brought some images up on my phone. He saw one with a flag and said it looked like the Philippines. Mom would later explain he was probably talking about Manila Central University (MCU) and their parades. Later, I showed him a few more parades from the Philippines, just as he was easing out of his brief rally. “Wow,” he said quietly. And when I showed him another one he repeated it, “Wow…” in a hushed reverence.

Andy would later tell me that when people are nearing death they sometimes see parades and it’s a way of welcoming them into their transition. When it was time for me to leave for the day, I held Dad’s hand and let him talk for a bit, but it looked like he was tiring out. I told him it was ok to close his eyes and take a nap. I told him I would see him tomorrow and then said, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said with a small weak voice, and I smiled back at him.

“Thank you,” I managed to stammer through tears and a forced smile.

“For what?”

“For giving all of us such a good life.”

I told him he could take a nap, to which he agreed. Before he closed his eyes he looked at me and said very clearly, “What are you waiting for?”