Waving Goodbye

Harry sitting on a Gilbert & Sullivan throne. It suited him. 

I was 35, pregnant and in Portland visiting my parents. I had gone out for the evening to see old friends, driving alone. When I returned I found my father Harry waiting up for me. It was late for him, about 11:00pm.

‘Hey Pops. What’re you doing up so late?’

‘Waiting for you Ter. You know, you’ll always be my child.’

I smiled, touched by his sentiment. I kissed him goodnight and toddled off to bed.

The next day, my parents stood in their garage, waving goodbye as I drove away, back to Seattle. I cannot remember a time when this comforting family ritual did not take place. Both mom and dad watching and waving. They waited until I left their field of vision before turning back into the house. It was a comforting feeling to take with me on the road, a part of them still with me.

25 years later I stood with my sister Sandra, arm and arm. The mortician had come to my parents home to collect Harry who had just passed. It had taken them longer than usual to arrive and we had several unexpected hours with him. It didn’t hurt anyone’s feelings to have that extra time.

They helped compose his body, changed his clothes, gathered the necessary papers and prepared him for transport. We the family, all 13 of us who had witnessed his death, waited in the next room. 

Finally they were ready and moved Harry to the garage and into the transport vehicle in the driveway. We all watched in silence as they loaded him in. The car lights came on, the engine came to life, the brake released, and they slowly began to pull away. The family drifted back into the house.

Only Sandra and I remained. We watched, leaning on each other with hearts broken, waving goodbye. This portal that for years had served as the place of our departure was now the place of his. In this solemn and defining moment, we stood on the other side, the ‘wish you weren’t leaving’ side, just as he and my mother had done so many times before. Conscious that this family ritual had now become a rite of passage, we waited until the tail lights disappeared, waited until we could no longer hear the tires on the road of the van that carried our beloved father, waited to return inside. Into the dark night Harry went alone, without us, carrying the piece of our hearts that will always love him.

On this Father’s Day, four years, seven month, and three days later, I miss my dad.

©️Theresa Elliott, all rights reserved