The day my father died, April 13, 2014 in Boston, I was in New York City. I had previously signed up for a “Meet the Agents” weekend put on by the International Women’s Writing Guild, so I went. The doctor had been too optimistic about how long Dad would last. Even he encouraged me to travel, knowing I would return in two days. Dad had been unable to speak so well and was in and out of consciousness. I took the chance, hoping that my Monday morning rush to the hospital would allow me to hold his hand in mine to say my good-bye. I do wish I had been there, even though he knows I love him.
Dad’s funeral was delayed for two weeks because of the Holy Week during Easter. For those two weeks, his wind began and kept us on alert. I attributed those to his discontent with me.
Immediately after Dad’s funeral, my siblings and I noticed the winds to be increasingly stronger and more fierce than any we could remember. Shortly thereafter, a violent windstorm accompanied another family occasion, leading us to believe that Dad and another relative’s wrath commanded the winds from their lofty post in heaven. My siblings and I began to notice these blowing uprisings common to certain birthdates, anniversaries, etc. We enjoyed Dad’s invisible presence. On the other hand, we feared the irony of the power of his fatherly anger in the air, hoping it was harmless not just to us, but to others.
Our parents’ wedding anniversary is May 28th. I don’t know if anyone in the Boston area remembers, but all week Dad spoke to us with his windy dramatics. I sincerely hope that he is having a good time raising cane all over the universe. He never really had his day, so I think he has collaborated with God and is making his own music. Sometimes I actually love the breezes! Thanks, Dad. Thank you, God.