Certain dates arrive on the calendar that I dread. The anniversary of my father’s death – February 8th. August 18th – the date his brain tumor was discovered. June 28th – his date of birth. 

On June 28th of this year I lay in the old porch swing on the front porch of the farm house in the middle of the Blue Grass Valley. The lawn is covered in brown patches. Very little rain has fallen in over a month. But the hills are a beautiful golden color and the constant breeze undulates the tall grass of the surrounding fields in a mesmerizing manner. The calls of gold finches and red winged black birds sing to me as I sway gently in the swing. I think of my father. Quietly I scan the landscape and the porch and breathe in deeply. I see the old wood box my mother built. It is stacked full of the wood my father split. I wonder when we will burn the final stick and how I feel when that day comes. Thankfully there are still rows full of wood in the woodshed stacked to perfection. I see the old butter knife that I stuck in between two boards of the porch to hold the screen door ajar to let the breeze into the house. The same knife he always used to do the same because the tubular latch mechanism broke many years ago. I feel the warmth of the afternoon sun and I close my eyes. 

I learned from my therapist that each person has their own way of honoring a person they have lost on certain dates of meaning. She encouraged me to take a moment on those dates and do whatever made the most sense for me. Some burn candles, some visit a grave, some make a toast, some cry, and some share stories with loved ones. 

When dad passed away I said to Ben if reincarnation is a thing dad will return as a robin. “But he hates robins” Ben replied. I laughed “Yep, that is what makes it so damn funny and fitting.” 

I once gave dad a gaudy porcelain statue of a robin as a birthday gift. Another year I gave him a felt robin ornament for the Christmas tree. I could barely keep my laughter from bursting forth as he opened the “gifts”. Each time he would chuckle and give me a big hug and then pretend to toss the gift in the garbage bin. But the ornament always appeared on the Christmas tree each year and the statue remained in the den.

I allow the swing to gently rock me – “Father I miss you and I love you. Show me a sign you hear me.” 

I reopen my eyes.

A robin lands in the middle of the yard.

“Oh hello there dad.” 

I chuckle to myself and smile. A tear gently rolls down my cheek. The robin turns its head toward me, chirps, and takes flight down the valley.