Soft

We shopped for dresses. I cried quietly in the dressing room. I don’t want a new dress, I want my Dad. I bought myself two. The yellow one is in a bag beside me, waiting to go back. I’ve still got the rest of his chemo wrapped up in there, too.

Mom chose a pink blouse, and my tiny niece smiled and ran out of the bedroom with it. We went back and got her a dress that matched. We wrapped ourselves in layers so soft.

We pinned up the children’s hair. Zipped up our boots. Held our hearts. They folded the flag and it sat heavy, cradled in my mother’s arms, and weighed her down, lest she float away from there.

The last year I’d taken to putting my hand over his heart after each hug, as if to say, stay. Just stay, ok buddy? Now I rest it on the yellow jacket, folded into a tidy square and tucked away. I do not want to forget that day, the yellow coat day.

There’s a blanket he gave me a while back. I remember when my father-in-law lost his father and found himself craving some firm bit of contact with the man he’d loved…wanting to wrap up in the rugs his father had woven by hand.

I remember. I’ve kept that blanket close.

The scarf my sister saw me loving, and was kind enough to hand to me; his ties and hats…I woke up just now from a dream. Everything whirling slowly, and these soft layers of Dad concentrically woven, wrapping around us all as each day comes and goes.

The dreams are hard. I wake up reaching for some bit of him I’d been lucky enough to find. Achy, cryptic gifts. Back to sleep; my son’s been waking early these days, too.

Tanya writes, teaches yoga and mindfulness, and consults with schools and agencies to better understand how trauma and stress impact our youth, families, and our communities. You can learn more about her work at www.breathebebrave.com