Let go and move on. And shut up.

Today is October 4th. The day my father passed away 4 years ago. As the years pass by, I find it easier to deal with my loss but I still struggle on and around this day. I become cranky, withdrawn and introspective. I try to find a connection with my dad by doing a "havan" on the morning of October 4th, and by making his favorite food for dinner. I try not to miss him, his soft laugh and rough touch. I try to remember what he taught me and how much he loved me. I try to bring up a picture of him in my mind – that disarming smile, thick black/grey hair, broad forehead. Sometimes, instead, I see the image of him standing next to my mom, withered and tired – this was when he visited me for the first time after he had just recovered from a stroke. My mind wanders on to the painful fact that I listened to him and did not go to India when he was hospitalized for his surgery. I could at least have met him, touched him, and talked to him one last time. He told me to stay home because M needed me. That he will be fine and back home in no time. I was a fool to listen to him.

This is also the day when I feel the loneliest on the planet even though I have J with me and he stays home to do the havan with me. Human mind is such that it always craves the unattainable. That "unattainable" thing for me is a phone call from my family to let me know that they are thinking of me, even though I am so far from them, while they have all gotten together to pay homage to my dad. I call them on the evening of the 3rd, when it is already the morning of 4th at their end. They are usually getting ready to do a havan themselves - cleaning, getting ready, setting things up. We chat briefly and then hang up amidst promises of them calling me the next morning when it is the 4th at my end.

On the morning of the 4th, J and I get ready, clean out the place where we are going to do the havan (usually the garage because it has been raining on this day for the last three years), drop the girls off at school, come back and get everything ready - all the while keeping an ear open for the phone, hoping that it will ring sometime soon. That it will be my mother or brother calling to let me know that even though I might be physically alone, thousands of miles away from them, they are with me in thought and spirit. The call never comes. That is one thing I can count on – that I will never receive that one call on this particular day, when I need it the most. I must learn to cope on my own.

A few friends, to whom I vented about this, consoled me by saying they perhaps “freeze up” at the thought of making this call, it must hurt so much. I can understand that, and at the same time I don’t. I understand that it can hurt terribly, that their grief probably paralyzes them. But, I can’t understand why someone would not think of a loved one’s hurt and keep his (or her) own hurt aside for a few minutes. Can it be that difficult? If my daughter told me how it hurts that I don’t call her on the one day that she feels utterly lonely, I think I WOULD remember to call her from then on even if my own grief was killing me.

Maybe I am making a big deal out of it unnecessarily. I should count my blessings. My mom loves me dearly, and so does my brother. I have spent the entire day today reminding myself of this. If my mom didn't love me, she wouldn't close down her own home for 4 months to come live with me. If my brother didn't love me, his face wouldn't light up when we meet. People can love you and still be thoughtless sometimes. I have to learn to accept that. I should just let it go and move on. But moving on is such a hard thing to do! There should be an app for that.