October, Again

A year ago,

September ended with your eyes closed,
your hand in mine,
your head tilted to the side.

Outside, the grass was dry.
The air was heavy.
It still felt like summer.

October opened in a church.

Your face was on the screen.
Your voice was singing.
But you weren’t there.

They called it a celebration of your life,
but I could feel the rug
being pulled from beneath me.

Without my parents,
I am lost.

We had wasted so many years,
and there were wounds
that hadn't healed.

We never spoke much
about what had happened.

Instead, we moved forward.

We talked more.
You listened.
I let you in.

After losing Mom,
I'd begun to turn to you
for the guidance
I'd needed for so long.

You had become my Northern Star.

There were so many people,
not enough chairs,
and more tears
than I knew what to do with.

I stood at the podium,
sharing a piece of my soul,
telling everyone
I didn’t know what I’d do now.

I lingered in the doorway
after everyone was gone,
staring at your picture.

Before you got sick,
I’d told you
that you’d be a grandfather again.

I’d hoped this time would be different,
that my child would know you,
that you’d have the chance
to be part of their life.

But that little life was gone, too.

In the parking lot,
I paused.

The air was warm,
still heavy with sorrow.

I stared at the beginning of October,
trying to understand
why you had to go.

You knew my heart was broken.
You knew how much I’d lost.

And still,
somewhere beneath the grief,
I held on to hope.

Dad, I want a baby.

I let the wish go,
sent it into the October wind,
not knowing if you could hear me.

This October,

I remember how it began,
just days after
I’d said goodbye to you.

An ache in my hands,
a feeling I recognized
from the times before.

I’d brought two little lives
into the world,
only to lose two more
before I could hold them.

I stood in the bathroom,
holding a test up to the light.

Two pink lines.

An answer that appeared
before I’d even had time
to expect one.

Did you hear me?

At the first ultrasound,
I searched the screen
for everything
that had been missing before.

A heartbeat.
A tiny body moving.

He was there.

But fear stayed with me,
even as he grew.

There were reasons
he might never have made it here.

Earlier this year,

when the time came
to bring him into the world,
I was exhausted.
I had nothing left to give.
I couldn't push anymore.

Dad, wherever you are,
please give me the strength
for one last push.

I closed my eyes
and saw a light.

One final push.

And he was here.

Hours after his birth,
his blood sugar dropped.

They took him to the NICU.
Days, they told us.
Maybe weeks.

I stood beside him,
holding his tiny hand.

Dad, please.
Help him get better.
Help me bring him home.

That same day,
he pulled out his feeding tube.

By the next day,
he was coming home.

And now,
I sit on my couch
with him in my arms.

Blue eyes.
Red hair.
Your familiar smirk.

They call him Little David,
after the grandfather
he’ll never get to meet.

Sometimes I wonder
how much of you he carries,
and what the two of you know
that I don’t.

Dad, I miss you.

Next October,

There will be another celebration.

I'll stand before a crowd again,
remembering the last time
I struggled to find my words.

This time,
I'll be making promises
instead of saying goodbye.

You always encouraged me
to hold on to my fiancé.

When I told you
I didn't deserve
how good he was to me,

you said,

“You deserve good things.
You deserve to be loved.”

Sometimes I wonder
if you knew
how much I'd need him
after you were gone.

Little David will run down the aisle,
his small footsteps
carrying him toward the people
waiting at the other end.

I'll watch him go,
imagining how you would have smiled
to see him.

Then it will be my turn.

I wish you could take my arm,
and watch me marry
the man you always
encouraged me to love.

Perhaps I'll see you
in a little boy's smile,
or recognize your stubbornness
when he refuses to sit still.

And as I step forward
into a brighter future,
you may not be there,
but Little David will.

Thank you, Dad.