My father passed away on the morning of Saturday March 27, in Ohio, after contracting Covid -19 in January. He “recovered” from the virus, but the aftermath took its toll on him. He was in hospice for a few weeks and was unresponsive in his final days. I had planned to have someone hold a phone to his ear the day he died, and instead was writing a letter to him with all my thoughts as he passed.

I wrote the piece below the next morning. It is an exploration of the way it felt to grapple with his impending death and to begin to let go of the hurts and implications of his dying.

THE FIST

Sometimes I feel my heart is a fist. Hard and fierce and tight. No vacancy here; no tender gravity allowed. Locked down tight so no bad or good could enter or leave. Not much oxygen. Days are long and many shades of gray. Lately, every once in a while, I see a flower or the sky in full technicolor, and I am shocked and amazed. I am in awe. This week I felt a little loosening of the fist. I thought about his story. What had caused him to be so hard, to worry so much, to be led around by his anger as if on a leash, his whole body like a fist? What hurt or humiliation did he endure or was it simply genetic, passed down through generations?

As the fist of my heart loosened just a little, in my mind I imagined the color of him wanting to be born, even as he lay dying. A tear slid down my cheek and I wished (oh, how fervently I wished) that I had had the courage to put my arms around the fist of him and to rock and comfort him, to let him know he was safe and not to be afraid. Safe to let go and to fall into freedom. Safe to let go and find the peace that he had never uncovered or understood was always hidden inside. If only I could unclench the fist and open my hand.