My Dad died.
It wasn’t unexpected, yet you never know how you will feel until something is reality.
The night before I flew home for his graveside service I made a memorial bracelet.
I cut a small piece of bamboo, drilled holes in it with my Dad’s old Black and Decker drill, then made some knots.
The pattern of knots on one side represents his date of birth, the other side the date of his death. Years back I read that bamboo has a cultural myth–mourning the death of a father.
Seemed appropriate, understated, personal.
The morning of his service I took cuttings from his garden to make a spray for his coffin.
At the service I didn’t feel as much of a loss as I did when I spent time in his shop knowing he would never be back.
When I went through his file cabinet I found the English-French Dictionary he used when he was stationed in France during the Korean War. A newspaper clipping was tucked inside. I believe that my need to keep mementos just might have came from my Dad.
I also found letters I had written to him. He even kept the packet of photos describing an investment casting.
Dad wasn’t one to say how much he cared, his actions showed it.