Walking With My Dad
This walking stick, whittled out of ash or hickory, belonged to my dad. The surface is shaved perfectly smooth, and I’m sure it took a lot of work to make a perfect walking stick. In a way, I was with him for 1.58 miles this morning to honor him with my grief. In some ways, I did not grieve his moving on ahead of me; actually, it was a relief for him and for me to know the pain of his afflictions ended nearly ten years ago.
My biggest source of grief wasn’t his death; it was my failure as a son to say the things I finally shared this morning as I gripped his walking stick. My hand was exactly where his hand held that stick. I imagined his hand gripping the stick with me. I imagined the sound of that piece of hardwood striking the street as it did when he walked with it. He was with me, and it made me remember that without him, I would never have had this chance to walk with his memory, holding his walking stick.
As he aged, life became slower, as did his pace. I’m feeling those same things. They say better late than never, but I’m not so sure. I think the grief only gets deeper, so I pray I’ll get the chance to say the same things I shared with him this morning when we meet again.
I’m a GriefShare Facilitator, and one of the 13-week sessions is on Regrets, and it slays me every time we revisit it. That module is where we grieve the things we should’ve … could’ve … or would’ve done or said that never happened because we delayed or dismissed the opportunity before they moved on.
It took almost 45 minutes to complete my walk, and 74 years to say the things left unsaid. My advice is not to wait, saying what needs to be said to the man who gave you life.
Peace! G.
