Welling and welling, never falling, the tears for my father. I cannot find the strength to let go. Whether from fear of losing him completely or losing myself, I do not know. Over again, I relive the moment in the funeral home, seeing him, lying there. The body of the man who was once my father. But it is his spirit I miss; the body was merely the face that helped me to identify it.
My son recently claimed that he does not believe in “soul” as a concept (not as a musical genre), and that struck me hard at the core of my own beliefs. While I am not religious, I would describe myself, instead, as spiritual, and the soul stands at the centre of that belief.
I suppose I’ve been subconsciously pondering this for the last few days, and my concern is this: if my son denies the existence of a soul, is he – in effect – denying the existence of my father? Of any of us? All of us? Even himself?
Perhaps, I have done my son a disservice by not giving him a spiritual/religious background. Is it perhaps too late to offer him some new knowledge of the world? Or – and this is my own fear talking – is he too opinionated now (even at the tender age of nearly 11) to accept that there are other ways of interpreting the world around him?
I hold the grief close to me: grief at losing my father, grief at the possibility of such a massive cock-up in raising my son. I need to let go… but I don’t know if I can.