My father was the one who taught me how to write. How to put commas. How to play with the Danish language.
He was also the one who, after having accepted that I was not going to strive to become a top researcher anyway, was most engaged in my writing quest.
He proofread my entire novel. He engaged in lively debates about the characters and their thoughts and actions. He would call me every now and then and ask me whether I had heard from the publishing agency or acted upon this or that prompt.
His love for me made him love what I was doing. No matter what. That was the kind of father he was.
He died last year.
It has been such a loss. I miss him every day. And yet somehow he is always here, communicating to me.
Shortly after his death I wrote the poem below, which also says something about how I view death and how I am learning to live with it.
At some point in time I will meet you again
It could be at the end of my life
It could be a couple of years from now
It could be this time tomorrow
As I sense that my mere thinking of you
Makes you pay me a visit
Or rather, perhaps,
You are always right here
Unbelievably close to me
But I can only feel it when I
My ears are listening for your voice
My eyes are longing for a vision of you
But I have the company of butterflies on my evening walks
I feel the wind suddenly blowing kindly around me
And I did hear your voice in the garden on the day of your transition
Which is just another name for something that cannot, but has
It feels so present and yet so unreal
I wonder what time has got to do with it
I cry so very often
But I smile and laugh and live even more
Not because you are gone
But because you are always right here, and so, I am not
I remember our last night together
I held your tired hand which felt so lovingly strong
Tears form rivers
My voice becomes a squeal
I drown myself in sorrow
And then I remember
You comfort me, and again, gratitude breathes my body
This is the sea in which I float
Waves of sadness and loss surge me
I let them roll over and pass
There is no other side to reach
There is only being with what
I hear there is nothing to get over
Because there is no loss, really
Do write a little, you say.
You were my greatest protagonist
I believe you still are
And so I do
For you, for me, for me healing heart
For all the love that remains to be lived