All The Poets In Heaven

Yesterday I took myself out and framed a childhood photo of me and my Dad. It was one of those photos that I hadn’t seen before from the day we did the memory boards for his ‘life celebration’. It is housed now in a crisp white frame, sitting on my writing desk. I sat myself down this morning to write and my insides sunk looking at it. I am really missing him today. Wishing I could pick the phone up and check in to see how he is and what he’s up to, have him make me repeat myself just so he can say, ‘That’s twice you said that!’.  It escapes me a lot of the time that he’s really gone. It feels like he’s just wintering in Florida, hanging out with his pals, raising heck. The popular kid on the block, the fan favorite. Turns out I can’t call him but I can still talk to him. It’s a comfort but nothing beats the sound of his voice booming back at me and his jokey tone.

I watched ‘Heaven Is For Real’ yesterday and since I’ve been thinking a lot about Heaven. I would like to think it is for real and that my Dad is young and able again, happy, with his loved ones, in a place that is beautiful. When you lose someone you love, it raises questions and worries. I watched that film, read about the family and the boy’s experience and it made me hopeful. I want that for him, for Joe and for those I have lost along the way. I want that peace and that wondrousness for them.

Dad showed up in a recent dream I had. I was sitting in a movie theatre, the second seat in with someone, I can’t remember who it was. The seat next to the aisle was empty when we settled in with popcorn and treats. At one point I looked to my right, at the empty seat. It was no longer empty. There was my Dad, sitting next to me with his big winter coat on, unzipped, and his ball hat. He was smiling. I did a double take, I felt relief to see him and said, ‘Dad, I really miss you.’ Then I woke up. There was no time for him to reply. It was nice to see him but it made me that much lonelier for his company, his thoughts, his advice, his wit and his presence. I know he is always with me, logically I know that and can turn to him any old time I like but emotionally it is a strange denial.

So I write poems. This one, especially for him:

All the Poets in Heaven

the one who gave me life rests in a darkened room

my Father impatiently awaiting the end of his days

I capture his weakened hand with both of mine

move gently to him and  whisper softly in his ear

I ask him kind-heartedly that whenever he arrives

to please give my love too all the Poets in Heaven

**

It’s a stormy Sunday here in Halifax. Our first notable snowfall that has now given way to freezing rain and then rain. In a word, messy. It’s a good day for hunkering down with books and films. I’m grateful to return back to my regular routine tomorrow, work, gym, rinse, wash, repeat. Winter is a downer but I am going to try to make the best of it instead of complaining about it but I really do detest winter. I don’t like to shovel snow. I don’t mind the scarves and hats and accessories but the commuting and clean-up are hindrances. I was born in the wrong climate. I need to move somewhere where it’s sweater weather all year round. Dare to dream, dare to dream.

In propinquity,

Nic