Seven

Dear Mark,

This week marks seven years since you died. In the early years after your death, I used to say that it felt like you were here yesterday and a thousand years ago. Now it only seems like the latter. I have recently been following the online account of a man who lost his husband a few months ago. I recognize the raw and unrelenting pain he has of losing his partner. I think anyone who has lived through that, regardless of the years that have passed, can attest to the fact that the pain can surface to the top very easily. I often want to reply to his stories – to say that somehow things start to get better, that grief lessens its clutch. I never do, though, because how do you tell someone that it really never ends, that you slowly manage to fill in the space around you until it no longer feels like it’s going to kill you.

The world of science, your world that you loved so much, has been decimated. I told the kids that even though it sounds horrible to say out loud I am glad you aren’t around to witness what is happening. Charlatans you would call them, and they are even worse than that. Michael and many, many others are fighting the good fight day after day but everything that has been done will take decades to undo. I miss your calm explanations of how science research works and how you could counter most arguments with facts readily at your disposal. Ever since Covid people rely on that one high school chemistry class they took in high school and YouTube hacks for their information. The ignorance is laughable except when it’s your life’s work. If you were here, it would break your heart.

Yesterday I was in the backyard at the house looking to see what plants I could find to move over to mine and Michael’s. Lo and behold there were morning glorys growing. After you died I never could get them to grow again and there they were this year – bright and happy and tangled around the roses.

Like you, Mark, still tangled in the lives of me, our kids, and everyone who loved you. Your death will reverberate forever but for what seems like a minute I could call you mine. That was my favorite part.

love,
k.

****************************

Dad,

The days after you passed were the darkest, coldest days of my life. One of those days was rainy and gloomy. I looked out the window and saw life carrying on and something caught my eye. The hummingbirds were braving the heavy rain and flocking to the feeder. Seeing one always feels like a rare occurrence and on that day it felt like a sign from you – a way to freeze the moment and breathe.

As the years have gone by I often think about my future. What does it look like? Who will I be? In those questions there is always another one that follows. What would it look like if you were here? Where would you be?

My future became a blur this past year and I’ve had to rethink everything and rewrite what it looks like. But I’ve rebuilt myself and refilled the hummingbird feeder. At first it took awhile for them to come back. Now I see them almost every day, and when I see the hummingbird I instantly stop and watch – putting my future on hold for just a moment to be with you.

Will