11/07/2025
ANNA
There are five songs that trigger tears for me, as soon as the first few notes enter my ears. Like Pavlov’s experiment with dogs that salivate as soon as they hear the bell that they’ve been trained signifies food, these songs trigger the water behind my eyes to bubble up and begin to flow and take me right into the heart of gratitude – for all of the songs are associated with profound parental experiences in my life. I admit it freely – I have entered the space of fatherhood where, despite her upcoming 25th birthday in December, I am more and more aware that my daughter will now and forever be “my little girl.”
Life goes on and at the most opportune times Anna jokes with her mom (my dear first wife, thoughts of whom will always hold a deeper meaning for me than she might ever realize) – just how easy it is to make daddy cry. And just as she requests I not speak to everyone in the café when we go in for a coffee or lose myself in the bookstore for an hour or two, it’s clear that she knows me well – particularly when she casually clicks on any one of those songs on her phone as we are driving somewhere together, testing me to see if the tears will come, proving to herself that it will work every time! Except then, it all ends in tearful laughter.
But there is something my daughter will never know that I know, about me and about herself. Something she will never comprehend in its entirety, just as I could never understand it about myself when I was the object of a grateful parent’s tear. It is the most unsettling element connected to the gratitude of a parent, and it might become tugged at and trigger tears like those songs. And that element is the parents' understanding of the mortality of their child.
As a funeral director I have served many who have found their arms unfulfilled, empty of the hugs they so desperately wish they could feel “just once more.” I have turned their grief upon myself, lamented for them and prayed silently that this thing, this tragedy, never happen to “my little girl.” Of course, I know that she will one day die, and even that to a parent, is tragic to contemplate no matter what age. But please, I pray you… do not die before me. I cannot assimilate it, despite my job. And here I am, serving those who know – my throat choking back any words that won’t help anyway.
It is a humbling endeavor. A feeling of uselessness, no matter what one is doing for those with a hole where the heart should be. And from the child’s perspective, it is virtually impossible for them to comprehend how much love a parent can hold, until perhaps they are one themselves. It is not a greater love than any other, or a superior love to another – just different, with, I would say… a lot more hope, a lot more concern attached to it. Putting myself into other people’s scenarios is a hazard of the job and an equally valuable gift in recognizing our shared humanity, the fragility of life, and the gifts that are given. At the loss of a child, it is a cruel reminder too, of so many things beyond our control.
Of course, when I’m open and observant, I recognize just how much my daughter is giving in return for that love I feel, and I don’t mean just love in return. It’s not devotion necessarily, or hugs and kisses. No – it’s lessons in the manner in which she grows into womanhood. Lessons in new ways to view my own childhood. Lessons in new ways of seeing. Lessons through having nurtured her to become someone other than me. And lessons from her to move beyond what I find myself to be.
This love is like nothing I have ever known. It has changed my life as it must, and yes – I want to leave my life before she leaves it. I want what we all feel is the natural order of things. But for those who find themselves in the opposite position, of which there are many, too many to shed tears with – I stand before them, my mouth hanging open, silent and amazed at the fact that they even managed to call me at all. And all I want is to recognize their hurt in some way that makes a difference for them, to alleviate the weight. And I want to whisper what they want to hear just once more, in their child’s voice. But at those times, I stand mute… and think of Anna.
UNTIL SOON. LIVE WELL.