For the first few months after my dad’s passing, it was really hard to talk about him and even harder to recall memories, vivid, detailed descriptions of my father and poignant times past. Because with the memories came the obvious grasp that my dad is gone. It was the very definition of bittersweet. Sure, there might be laughter and the subtle shape of a smile, but inevitably there’d also be tears and the realization that this is where the memories ended.
But as the months passed, remembering and recounting tidbits from my childhood, my dad’s sayings and jokes and other memories started doing the opposite: they started bringing me a sense of peace. Not an overwhelming wave of calm, but a small token of serenity. I also knew very well that talking about my dad meant honoring his memory and his presence in the world.
In her beautiful memoir Tolstoy and the Purple Chair: My Year of Magical Reading (stay tuned for my review!), Nina Sankovitch writes about the importance of words, stories and memories…
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