Coming Home in the Rain of Emotions: A Fathers Journey through Grief, Love, and Healing...

January 1st, 2024

The rain rhythmically pounded on the windshield. I pulled the handbrake and sat still. A moment of peace amid the chaos of work and family, between the downpour of stress and emotion. A sip wouldn’t hurt, someone in the recesses of my mind seemed to whisper. The thought alone calms me, a delightful tranquility occasionally interrupted by disappointment. A strangely pleasant feeling, a paradoxical emotion I had normally surrendered to. But I won’t let them get to me so quickly, I tell myself. No, not today. Today, I’ll let the stress aggravate me to the core, and the emotions flow like tidal waves against uncertain levees. 

January 3rd 

The levees seem to be giving way; it weighs heavily on me. Today, I reminisced about the past. Normally, I can look back and laugh through the sorrow. I can’t handle it well but can hide it effectively—a much easier task, a formula I know works. At work, I can’t concentrate because of then, and at home, I can’t offer you the love you desire, that I wish for you. Because of then. 

January 7th 

It’s going well! Work was good today! But, above all, home was good! You saw Dad happy. Not exuberantly, loudly, or rudely happy, just happy. Not overly joyful, but a simple smile that seemed to touch you all. It made Dad even happier. In the last few years, I despised water; its taste had faded over time. But last night, I sat with you in front of the TV, a glass of water in my hand. I saw you watching, as if an anomaly had crept into the certainty of our lives. You acted as if it were the most normal thing in the world. When I glanced sideways, I saw smiles from ear to ear, from all three of you. Not because of a joke on TV, but I think it was the moment itself. Not because it was so funny, or because you were secretly eating cookies, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I think because it felt so ordinary, as if this were the daily routine and would always remain. A stability to get used to, no need for alertness, just a relaxed atmosphere prevailed. It did me a world of good. 

January 13th 

I’m in the car, pulling the handbrake. I look at the photo of your mother on the dashboard. I’ve already bought a bottle; she sits next to me as her personification. I almost open it. Then, under the gaze of a blinding sunbeam, I see you running towards me. In good spirits because how could it be otherwise. But then you freeze and look at me as if there is sorrow that I am your father. A pain felt equally on both sides. But maybe it lingers longer with me, like an inner twinge that resurfaces with every thought of this moment. I see your pain, and you see mine. For a moment, I’m not your father but an equal. No, I say it wrong; we are not equal, but for a moment, I am less and you are more mature. I’m sorry that you must feel this way. I unabashedly grab the bottle from the passenger seat. Your gaze turns to despair. I clutch the bottle with both hands and step out. I stand in front of you, exposing myself to your judgment for a few moments. Like a messiah who unquestionably takes on and absorbs all sins. This is symbolic, I explain to you. You stare at me in surprise. What do you mean by symbolic? What does symbolic mean, you ask me. Symbolic means an action perceptible by the senses, depicting something spiritual or abstract. You look at me even more questioning now. I raise the bottle high above my head, let it dangle there for a second, and then let go. The journey to the asphalt seemed like an eternity; the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, offering a free passage for the wine to the gutter and from the gutter to the sewer. Hidden where it will never be found again. 

January 25th 

The last few weeks were fantastic, but now I find myself on the couch with a glass in my hand. I think of your mother again, her gentle hand, lousy humor, and tender manner. In the first few weeks, I drank to numb the pain, to allow myself joy that I couldn’t otherwise attain. But the strange thing is that nowadays, I’m not so sure if I still drink because of her loss. Do I really feel so much sorrow, or is my body fooling me, and the drink holding me captive? I pretend to take a sip, but with every moment that my lips are tethered to the glass, I look at the three of you in a family photo positioned on the shelf. Like two gravitational fields, the glass and the thought of you both pull me in different directions. You were stronger. 

January 31st 

I’ve often experienced alcohol as a person. Would that person be angry with me now for forgetting him? For leaving him somewhere behind, telling him I’d come back but never did. Am I still angry at alcohol as I always was? No, it doesn’t dance around in my head like it used to. I just don’t think about it anymore. Even when I look at your mother, and the dams break, tears like rivers seek a way down, I still don’t think about it. That has helped me process your mother’s farewell. 

I pulled the handbrake as the car stops and hear the rhythmic tapping of rain against my windshield. I look at the passenger seat, and I see nothing. A pleasantly empty space that can be filled by you, my children. I look through the side window at our house; inside, I see you playing. At first, you used to wait anxiously for my arrival, looking at what state I was in and reacting accordingly, either caring or angry. But once February begins, you don’t have to be adults anymore, and you can be what you’re supposed to be, children. In February, we are no longer equals, but I stand above you; then, I am your father, and you will listen to my wise advice. 

When February comes along, Dad finally comes home.’’