Letting the Body Speak Goodbye

My dad is dying,

and today I danced my grief.

I arrived numb.

Vacant, hollow, and empty.

“There’s nothing here to move,” I thought.

But I moved anyway.

A wiggle.

A slow reach through space.

A body going through the motions

without a soul inside of it.

And then,

I landed.

Feet on the ground.

Eyes coming into focus.

The quiet return of embodiment.

And suddenly,

a tsunami.

Grief rose without warning,

crashing through me in thunderous waves,

tightening and softening

my chest, neck, and jaw.

Tears spilled.

Uncontained. Unapologetic.

Beautifully messy.

I let the grief dance me

instead of trying to move it.

My mind whispered,

“Ok, that’s enough.”

But something deeper asked,

“What happens if you stay?”

So I stayed.

Sobbing. Moving. Breaking open.

And more waves came.

When I finally dared to look up,

I was met by kind eyes.

A hand over a heart,

silent witnesses

who also knew the terrain of deep loss.

And then

I was with him.

My father.

In his room,

surrounded by something unseen but undeniable.

Angels,

family,

those who had gone before.

A golden light held it all.

A portal open.

A pregnant stillness before his passing.

I was stunned

by the beauty of it.

Still moving, still crying,

I spoke to him:

“I love you, Dad.

You can go.

You are held.

It’s okay to leave now,

your next adventure awaits you.

Thank you for being my father in this life.

I love you forever.”

More tears.

More release.

And then

emptiness again.

Even though I am thousands of miles from him,

I knew I had been with him.

Not imagined,

with him.

The dance ended.

My heart

broken open,

soft,

and glowing.

I love you, Dad.

Goodbye, for now.

I will see you again,

I know.