22 AprSoft Rain on a Canvas Roof

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My dad was the sky in the world of my life—even if you weren’t looking you knew he was there. Like most fathers he had a job he had to do. Unlike most fathers he always found a way to include me in his job. I was with him for entire summers at scout camps. I was with him on weeklong adventures down the River of No Return that he guided. I was with him during long summers in the mountains building trails. There were quiet afternoons during bad weather when we both passed the time reading books while listening to rain patter on the canvas roof of the tent. In the winters I was with him at Kiwanis Club meetings, on tubing slopes in Idaho canyons, and on cookouts at Milner Damn on the Snake River. In my grown-up years I was with him on long phone calls where we relived our lives.

It was hard on me as my dad grew older. There were no more outside activities. Instead, there were chairs in the living room where we sat and talked. Phone conversations weren’t as fulfilling as I realized he was only pretending he could hear what I was saying. My dad, an adventurous man, and a man of faith, spoke of the coming of death. He seemed a little afraid. This surprised me. I had never seen him afraid of anything before.

I wasn’t afraid. I was prepared for my Dad’s death. I thought about it a lot, not in a morbid way, but just in a way of preparing. I considered how he was here now, but one day he would go away for a while. Death is just the way of life. And my faith told me that it is only temporary. After a short break we would be together again. I would miss him a little, but then we would have a joyous reunion. And my dad had lived a good life. He had a few regrets, but nothing to write a tragic novel about. No, his was a life full of service, adventure, and love. There would be nothing to be sad about when he passed on.

My sister was with Dad at his home when death found the address. Dad had been sleeping for two days in a body that had grown light and frail. I talked with Tara and told her I would arrange to make the four-hour trip the next day to see Dad one last time. A few hours later Tara called me. She said, “I was holding his hand. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back, he had stopped breathing.” My dad had passed away as quietly and beautifully as human being could.

And I cried. My son called me soon after to express his condolences about grandpa. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t speak to him. I had to hang up. What is still intensely interesting to me is how calm my mind was as I cried. There was no anger. There was no bitterness. There were no questions of “why?” And yet I wept like a tropical downpour. I didn’t understand. I still had my faith. I still knew that our separation was temporary. But when finally running up against the reality of that cold, impenetrable wall of death that now stood between my father and me, I fell to my knees before it.

Since that day I have regained my equilibrium. My faith, hope, and love are still intact. I know I will laugh with my dad face to face again. I think of my dad often. Sometimes when I am going for my walk, I feel like my Dad is walking beside me like we used to do. When I am cooking breakfast, I sometimes feel like I am my dad, who I found cooking pancakes for me when I arrived in the kitchen on so many school mornings. As I turn sixty, I think of my father and wonder if I’m living life as well as he was at the same age.  The downpour of separation grief is over. But still, when I look toward that dark, solid wall that separates us, I feel a sadness, a melancholy, something akin to a soft rain on a tent roof.