I’ll Be Your Mirror

On January 19th, 1982, I lost my father.

He was 19.

I was six months old.

I wasn’t of an age to grieve.

I wasn’t of an age to mourn.

But I’ve carried the sadness with me all this time.

Quietly. Privately.

I’ve only ever shared my loss with my very closest friends, and even then, never been able to fully articulate the feeling—an ache so lonely, so haunting, that even the brightest moments of my life have felt its shadow.

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I’ve lived a blessed life. I’ve been loved. I’ve been raised by two faithful and committed parents. I’ve been supported by a big, wholesome family.

Still. Nothing and no one has ever been able to fill the gaping void of

him.

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Yesterday, on the anniversary of his passing, my mother and I visited his grave together for the first time.

We brought him roses.

We mourned in a way we have never allowed ourselves to mourn.

I stood there, looking down at his grave, for a long time.

“This is all I’ll ever know of him,” I kept thinking.

“All I’ll ever be able to touch and feel of my father is this cold stone in the grass.”

It was the loneliest I’ve ever felt,

that moment of irreversible truth.

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I’ll never know him.

That’s my broken-hearted story. We all have one, and that’s mine.

I’ll never know my father, but I see him every day.

All I have to do is look in the mirror.