The Weight of Goodbye

I remember that run as if it were only an hour ago. My dad had just passed away from Alzheimer’s. Walking into Mum’s house and seeing him lying there, I felt a tangle of confusion, embarrassment, and anger. I knew this day was coming, but it still managed to catch me off guard. Only the day before, I’d listened to him talking about his Navy days, his memory for the past always sharp, the present not so much. As I was about to leave, he stared at me, a long, unsettling look, as if he already knew he was on his way out. That moment is etched in my mind. I forced a cheerful goodbye.

That was the last time I spoke to him.

Looking back, I can still feel the uncertainty in me. I replay those moments, and the emotions return just as sharply. That morning, I drove an hour to work, the same trip as the day before. The call from my brother-in-law to come home was almost identical to the one the day before; I even stopped the van at the same spot to return it. This time, though, the urgency was clear.

I never asked what had happened. Coward. I didn’t want to hear the word; I didn’t want to put my brother-in-law in that position. Part of me clung to uncertainty, not ready for finality. So I hung back in the shadows and let the truth gnaw at me. Keeping it at arm’s length depresses me even now. Shaking off the guilt and confusion was impossible, and the emotional turmoil grew overwhelming.

When I arrived at Mum’s house, my sister greeted me, but I barely heard her. My other sister, Mum, and both brothers-in-law were in the kitchen. I didn’t acknowledge anyone as I walked straight into the living room. My dad lay to the left; my adult nieces and nephews sat quietly to the right, grief heavy in the air. Anxiety hit me, I felt like I was on stage, everyone watching to see how I’d react.

I became hyper-aware of my footsteps, my breathing, the feeling of being observed. At the back of the room was the makeshift bed we’d set up the day before. My father lay beneath a quilt, looking as if he were just asleep. Overcome, I bent down and cried, forgetting everything else. In that moment, I wasn’t even sure if he had passed; no one had said the words, and I was too afraid to ask. The confusion made me feel foolish and uncertain. I wanted to ask if he was dead, but shame held me back.

I walked away, wanting to return but feeling too self-conscious, worried others would think it strange. I wished I could speak to him, ask if he was still there. Even with family around, I felt completely alone and bewildered. Anger surfaced. Why hadn’t my nieces and nephews left, giving me space to grieve? It felt like my moment had been taken from me. I could have asked, but awkwardness held me back.

When the doctor arrived, I hoped she’d say he was still alive. But he wasn’t.

Days later, with the sun for company, I ran my usual route through quiet back lanes. I don’t remember any specific thoughts; sometimes, just hearing your footsteps is enough. My mindset matched the run: easy pace, my mind wandering as recent events washed quietly over me. But everything changed at a familiar corner. I stopped, bent over, and a wave of grief crashed over me. I sobbed uncontrollably. When I stood up, I wondered what I’d say if someone saw me. That self-consciousness has followed me all my life , a feeling of being watched and judged, even when alone.

To cope, I create scenes in my mind. I imagine an elderly woman at the corner, steadying me, telling me it will be all right. Her presence comforts me, even though she’s only in my head. Sometimes I picture myself in a film, the audience cheering me on. The idea of others sharing my struggle encourages me. I’ve stopped worrying about these oddities; they comfort me, so I let them be.

After a few minutes, I kept running, feeling lighter but more confused. I’d always imagined grief as a slow, rising tide that would eventually overwhelm me. But after those tears, I felt cheated, as if I’d waited for a storm that never came. Was that it? Just a few tears for such a loss? I told myself this wasn’t the real grief, just a warning of what was to come, but it wasn’t.

In the quiet that followed, the run became my sanctuary. With every step, I felt a flicker of happiness, but anxiety was always close.

A sense of urgency brewed in me, a cliché “man of the house” moment. I needed to step up and wanted my family to see I was capable. The feeling gnawed at me, turning my run into something else. What started easily picked up pace, my emotions setting the tempo. My mind raced with thoughts of organising, but I didn’t know where to start. I wanted to step up, but I hadn’t even begun and already needed help. Anxiety grew, quickly followed by paranoia, what if my sisters were organising the funeral without me? Anger pushed paranoia aside. I imagined confrontations, grinding my teeth as my mind played out arguments. The stress of wanting to get home and take charge gripped my chest. Fear of being overlooked consumed me. I ran with this feeling for a mile before turning back. I could have turned sooner, but the absurdity of running kept me going; stopping would have nagged at me even more.

Abruptly, the chaos stopped, and a sense of calm washed over me. A metal farm gate appeared ahead; I’d passed it a mile ago without noticing. A white horse moved away, and I panicked; he must think I’d ignored him. I stopped at the gate and called out. He turned and trotted over, as he always does. I felt disappointed, he came for more than I could give, just a handful of words and the hope he didn’t expect more.

My mum used to make my dad pull over when we visited Nan in Kent, just to feed a particular horse an apple she’d brought along. Her love for animals could bring tears to her eyes. I get it. I’ve always felt it too.

For a moment, I let myself be consumed by the quiet and the warmth of the sun. I felt at ease. The field was an endless picture of green grass and blue sky. The horse looked at me with watery eyes, and the world stopped.

There’s a calmness in me I can’t find with people. With people, everything’s a negotiation: words, expectations, the fear of letting someone down, saying yes when I mean no. Then I get paranoid and angry because I can’t say what I’m feeling, making my inability their problem while I run away.

Around animals, the world stops. It’s just us two. No judgment, no pretending. It’s quiet. Nobody to twist what I’m doing or mess with my head. What I fear most is nodding along just to keep the peace, swallowing my own “no” until it tastes like dust.

But there’s no fear here, because the horse understands me. I wish I had something for him. I stare into his watery eyes and reckon he hears every miserable thought. I run my palm down his side; he turns and leaves, like he’s heard enough. After a moment, I continued my run. I was at ease, enjoying the quiet road. Past thoughts of paranoia faded away. I was back to running easy.

Then the flashbacks came, Dad as a young sailor, setting off on his first voyage. I felt proud, remembering how much his old ship meant to him, and how he encouraged me to join the Navy. I’m glad he never knew the only reason I didn’t was that he wanted me to.

With those thoughts came a wave of depression. My rebellious nature kept me from a job I might have loved: being at sea, wearing the uniform, feeling pride. That same nature, mixed with selfishness and embarrassment, kept me from sharing the father-son moments I thought most sons had. Every argument, every harsh word, every missed opportunity caught up with me.

The pace increased, but I couldn’t escape it. Overwhelmed, I stopped again, hands on my hips, bent over. There were no tears this time. I just looked on helplessly as what could have been slipped away, along with my father’s spirit.

The finality of death, the moment you realise you’ll never speak to that person again, is pure despair, a black hole where all the ifs and buts hide forever. But I refused to hover around that black hole, reliving the pain. Internally, I screamed, No more. With every step, I felt stronger. The run let me imagine who I wanted to be: resilient, assertive, free. Later, I realised I never needed to worry; my sisters quietly guided me, letting me become the person I aspired to be.

One morning, lying on the couch, I watched a single wispy cloud drift by. At its end, the cloud formed a figure, arm raised in a wave. In that moment, my grief lifted. I knew my dad was back on board his ship, surrounded by old shipmates, waving goodbye as he set off on a new voyage. And I was happy.

Letting Go

As I lay on the couch in the hush of dawn,

A single wispy cloud drifted by,

Slow, gentle, white against the window’s blue, its end curling into a figure, arm raised high.

Was it waving?

In that moment, grief dissolved,

My heart unburdened,

I saw my dad, back aboard his ship,

Surrounded by old shipmates,

Ready for a voyage to who knows where.

His wave was happiness,

A signal from beyond the horizon,

Letting me know he was gone, off to new adventures, and I was happy.