Fathers, Falling

poem

Photo by Liv Bruce on Unsplash

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An hour after my father died
in a hospital bed two hundred
and eighty miles away, I dropped

to my knees in our living
room, fell onto all fours
like a struck dog, wailing,

then collapsed completely onto
the floor with my face pressed
against the hardwood. Since then,

I've walked over this grieving
place too many times to count. 
I don't always remember how

I sobbed on the day that my father 
died. Grief takes longer and longer
breaks as the decades pass

but, this morning, I paused,
stood in the space where I fell,
and held onto my father's ghost

for a moment longer than usual.
I remembered falling. I remembered 
falling. I remembered falling. I

remembered falling. And I knew,
inside that falling—that repeated
falling—is my love for my father.

It's difficult to accept this fact
but grief is a good thing. Grief is
our wisest instructor. Grief

is what makes us fall. Grief is
what teaches us how to crawl. Grief
is what shows us how to rise

again to our feet and be grateful
for the terrible, beautiful cost
of losing all that must be lost.