DAD
Artist: Megan Donegan
On October 16, 2025 you took your last breath.
That same day, 2600 miles away, I came across a drawing of a dove in an archway on the artist Megan Donegan’s website. The following day, I happened to open an old calendar book and saw the words “Lonesome Dove” etched in my own handwriting from years before on the back page.
I believe that when a dear loved one crosses the threshold of death, while the act may appear lonesome, the impact is collective. Like the ripple of a stone, with one crossing everyone undergoes a transition.
I was just with you. The last week we spent together was in early October at your home on the bay in Florida, and our time together was precious beyond words. I played John Denver, your favorite music, as the sun set over the water night after night. The way the sun beamed, peachy and golden through the clouds, anyone would agree it was sacred. God’s hands, holding the sky open for you.
I felt spirit all around the bedroom, surrounding us. As you shifted your consciousness in and out of this realm, I had a felt-remembering that you and I have done this so many times before. This life and death thing is an old game. I felt the unique texture of our love and our long winding story.
Let us together send any and all regrets down the river. Let us release them like rose petals from our palms. The light right here, right now, is too beautiful to want it any other way. I thought about this as I sat on the end of your bed. I can see clearly now, the unconditional love is too potent.
Now that a month has passed, I must also officially thank you for the doves. As you know, in addition to those initial winks, a fine dove gentleman has visited me on my balcony here in California every day since you passed into the spirit world. And an extra thank you for sending the dove as I stepped out of my friend’s home the morning of your wake in New Jersey. I captured a picture of it after it flew into a yellow tree. That delighted me. You were always looking out for me. And clearly, you still are.
At your funeral, your niece, my cousin Catherine, reminded me that you always held your sister’s hands. Always. Every picture. “What brother does that?” she said with love.
You frequently held my hand too.
I will treasure the memory of holding your hand as we walked to church one morning about ten years ago. The leaves waved from above, happy for us. We were so connected, as we still are now.
I love that your hands are so much bigger than mine. I love knowing that we are ushering each other through yet another threshold. Your hands still feel like they are leading me, even from the other side of the veil.
You knew, did you not? When I first arrived in Florida you said, amidst dementia and a daze, “There is not much time, is there anything you want to say?”
I replied, “I love you Dad, what more is there to say? I love you.” And then you nodded with a knowing twinkle in your eye.
Forever yours,
Tahra
“Death is absolutely safe. It is like taking off a tight shoe.”
—Alan Watts