Dad's Not Dead

I was in my forties when the most tragic event in my life occurred, my dad died. The cause was congestive heart failure so it wasn’t a surprise. With only five percent of his heart working, we knew it was coming, and I was at his bedside when he passed away. This is why it surprised me when I saw my dad walk through the house.

Sitting on the couch in the living room, I watch as Dad walks down the stairs and heads into the kitchen. Perplexed, I decided to follow him. He’s at the sink with his head held back as he puts drops of medicine in both eyes. My father has dealt with glaucoma most of his adult life, so this is an action I witness twice a day.

Carrying grocery bags into the room, my mother and sister place them on the counter. Speaking to my Dad, my Mom says, “I bought pork chops.” Do you want to have them for dinner?” He responds, “I’ll get them started.”

Trying to shake what I feel are marbles rolling around in my head, I’m standing in the kitchen watching all this transpire. A common scene just played out except for one thing; my father died a couple of months ago, and remarkably, no one appears to notice. The three of them continue talking as they put the groceries away, and Mom even hands me some food and asks if I will take it downstairs. With my mouth open, I reach out and take the canned goods, actually feeling their weight, and walk to the basement.

Does anyone notice Dad is here, talking, walking, and interacting with us, even though he died a few months ago? He doesn’t look dead; he looks and sounds like himself. All appears to be normal except I know my dad is dead.

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While hanging out in the living room, my father asks if anyone wants popcorn. It’s Saturday night and the TV detective show “Mannix” is about to start. This is our weekly routine, so of course, we want popcorn, since Dad makes the best. His old stove in the basement has a place where a popcorn pan fits inside one of the top burners, the reason his popcorn tastes better and is a family favorite. I lie down on the heated carpet and enjoy mine.

This isn’t a vision; I taste the popcorn I’m eating and feel the warmth from the floor. Mom’s sitting in her favorite chair, and my sister is sitting on the floor with her back against the couch. I can’t gaze at myself since I’m literally here, but looking at my sister who is two years younger than I, she appears to be about 12 years old. Mom and my sister, even Dad for that matter, don’t remember that he died so I don’t bring it up to anyone for fear they will think I’m crazy; or even worse, he will disappear.

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Upon entering the kitchen, I see my father has breakfast ready. Dad stands at the stove, stirring the syrup from his secret recipe, turning his fluffy pancakes into a masterpiece for the taste buds. I suspect his syrup is Log Cabin he puts in a pan and heats up, but why spoil his shenanigans.

My father is my hero, a wonderful man, and we are extremely close, so when he died it was intensely painful, and I felt the emptiness. Now, the house is full of laughter and joy, and my pain disappeared. Replacing it is a worry that one day my dad will be dead again. Every morning I check to see if my father is still here, and day after day after day he is.

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My father is sitting at his computer on his desk that holds a matching hutch, while knee-high piles of paper lay on the floor, hardly ever touched. As I walk into the room, he swivels around in his chair and smiles. Dad tells me facts he just learned on the internet, which is always interesting. Topics can cover chemistry, trivia, or even recently discovered jokes. My sister walks by the office and waves to us while our father smiles and waves back. No one acts like anything is out of order. Yet, he is sitting right here looking as alive as ever.

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My sister and I walk into the kitchen and watch our father carve the turkey with his electric knife. Wearing an apron, he looks up, and his fogged glasses slide down his nose. I clearly hear his voice, I see him, he talks to my sister and I; she doesn’t notice that he is back from being dead.

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Dad works the second shift and I attend high school in the afternoon, so lunch together is a daily routine. Using tray tables, we sit in front of the TV watching the soap opera, “Ryan’s Hope.” We even have time to squat on the floor and play a couple of games of Yahtzee. Talking and laughing with my dad, I bask in our alone time knowing I am the luckiest girl in the world!

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Then it happened. Just as quickly as it started, it stopped, and Dad is not here. I no longer see him walking through the house, cooking in the kitchen, or even hear his voice. It’s quiet, and a great emptiness fills me. No one noticed that he had vanished since none of them saw him alive again. Maybe it was a dream, but I lived it; I walked, talked, saw, heard, and felt my father being here; it was real.

If they were dreams, is that the way I dealt with my grief from his death or just a wild imagination? I miss my father and think about him often, not with pain or fear, but with love and joy, and I remember our times together. One thing I know for sure is that I had extra time with my dad, just like when we had the mornings to ourselves, and today, fourteen years later, I remember those times clearly.