It was Sunday, May 2021, in Boston, and for the first time in what felt like forever, we were all gathered inside the house unmasked. Even the kids. It was the first time I had seen my father in months. I hadn’t prepared myself for the wave of emotion that came over me, seeing him seated on the couch alone, engulfed by the beige sectional. His black walking stick lay beside him, toppled over, while his right arm, the useful one, pulled me in when I hugged him. His left arm, paralyzed since January 2017, remained stiff, clenched into a fist.
I remember the day he had his stroke. I wasn’t in America; I was in Zimbabwe, tending to my mother’s suffering. She had tried to commit suicide just around Thanksgiving—around her birthday. Thankfully, she was found before she could hang herself, the noose still tied at the corner. Beneath it was a bag filled with her important documents—wills, letters, things she meant to leave behind for me. It was my cousin in the UK who called to tell me. Not my father. Not anyone in Zimbabwe. That disconnection, that silence, stung more than I can describe.
At the time, I was Professor teaching creative writing & American Pop Culture at private university. I broke my contract and made travel plans to fly to my mother. She was battling cancer—stage 4 thyroid cancer—and depression. She was also caring for my bipolar brother and teenage nephew, all by herself. I flew to Zimbabwe to pick up the pieces of her shattered spirit. When I saw her, she was a fragment of the woman I had known—thin, frail, as if the weight of it all had broken her. I held on to my strength for her, even as I felt my insides crack. My son, just seven years old, came with me, hoping he might remind her she still had reasons to live. And, for a while, I think it worked.
But now, sitting here with my father in Boston, I couldn’t escape the memories of my mother. She and my father created me—both halves of who I am—and now, only one half remained. As I sat with him, showing pictures on my phone, we came across a photo of his sister, my Aunt M, and my cousin. When my father saw the picture, his face lit up with his signature Cheshire grin. My father, always warm, smiled with his entire face.
"Would you like to say hello? I can record it," I asked. He looked at me, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Since the stroke, he hadn’t been able to speak much. Aphasia—yes, that’s what it’s called. He struggled to form words, but he could manage simple phrases. I pressed record on the voice memo, and he said, "Hello," through the noise of my son and his cousins laughing and playing in the background. We listened to the recording together, and he smiled, as if hearing his own voice was a revelation.
I had dressed intentionally in bright colors that day, a cobalt blue sweater and purple lipstick, because he’d always told me, “Why do you wear so much black? Wear something bright!” He smiled at my tribute to his words as I took a picture of us, side by side. I sent the photo to my cousin Nolice on WhatsApp, along with the voice recording of my father saying hello. In the background of my phone was another photo—one of my mother and me. We were sitting on a couch, both wearing glasses. I had my arm around her, kissing her cheek. That snapshot, frozen in time, now seemed like a distant memory.
When my father saw the photo, his eyes watered with sadness. "In a few days," I reminded him softly, "it will be one year since she passed." The grief welled up inside me like a dam breaking, and before I knew it, I was crying, my head resting on his good shoulder. He rubbed my leg gently, the way only a parent can, offering silent comfort.
From across the room, my stepmother caught my eye. She shifted, crossed the room, and sat in front of me. I straightened up, still shielding my face with my hands. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. My brother-in-law, Peter, disappeared into the kitchen and sent my niece over with a box of Kleenex. My stepmother rubbed my leg while my father and I held each other in that quiet, emotional moment. "What's wrong, Auntie? Allergies?" my niece asked. My stepmother, trying to keep the mood light, chimed in, "Yes, it’s just allergies."
I smiled weakly, my heart heavy with the weight of loss.
Since his stroke, my father and I had learned to communicate in ways beyond words. Perhaps, in some strange way, we had never been this honest, this open with each other. I often wonder if we would have reached this place without the tragedies that have come to pass. There’s a silver lining in this storm, a godwink, as they say, something I can hold on to amid the grief.
I am grateful for these moments, for the part of him that’s still here with me, even as I grapple with the questions that keep me up at night.
When your roots die, are you still a tree?