I forget she's there. But, she reminds me. Several times a day. Suddenly she changes positions. Thumping the walls made tender by her presence. She's curled up inside me. Fetal position. Tucked inside my heart. Sadness is her name. She's grieving the loss of her father.

Collage by artist extrordinaire (& my collage teacher) Cindy Wunsch of Studio Be

I've been told that when one's remaining parent dies, you're left standing at a cliff. Standing there, staring down into a vast canyon of air and space at your own mortality, whereas before, your parents hindered the  view. I've not reached that view just yet. I assume I will. I've caught glimpses, like everyone says you will. They're right. It began happening after I turned 40 a decade ago.

No, this thing, this organism in my heart is simply sadness. Realizing they were lurking at the corners, oozing a toxic slim, I made peace with my remaining unresolved-flapping-in-the-wind-resentments weeks before Daddy died. I knew it was important to do so.  Once again, I came to that place, as I had with Mother, and as I had with Daddy about other woundings before–taking clearly into account both Mother and Daddy's own wounded child-like selves. Knowing, seeing the emotional space that they sometimes operated from when I judged them not-so-kind to my child-like self–either when I was an actual child or otherwise. I saw the griefs and the hurts. Many for which I had no name or explanation or understanding. Only that they were there. So, I was ready and I was at peace with him going on.

As I sat at the funeral half-listening to the one-third of the eulogy that contained vestiges of my father's conservative religion–I took in the visual Joy before me.  Rich, ruby red roses and petite, white lilies packed into a trailing arrangement before me. Ironically and beautifully given by the family of my wuzband. My mind, heart and lungs repeatedly sighed. Softly. My internal voice narrating: "The trauma. The trauma of it all was over for my family." The trauma of the last five years as my parents crashed literally and figuratively into old age and other unforgiving surfaces. As hearts leaked and failed and muscles froze. As minds and memories deteriorated. As impatience grew and patience wore thin. In all parties. As a successful career ended abruptly as a new one of full-time caregiving launched for the eldest sister living in the old hometown. Sigh. It's over. We are at Peace. His passing from 88-years of well-lived life is a good thing.

But the fetal-positioned child packed tightly, poking and bulging the walls of my heart reminds me. There's work to be done. It can't be forced. It can't be rushed. It's just there. She's there. I drink lots of chamomile tea for her. She asks for hot soaks, too. Sometimes she makes my mind a little fuzzy. Complex conversations, recollections, and current international conflict are difficult to absorb. Intellectually and emotionally. She needs to be quiet a lot. Alone a good bit. The solace of nature walks offer a soothing soul balm. And she needs to write in her journal and right here.

She is a writer, this girl living in my heart. And writers are artists of words, painting on paper of hard and electronic varieties. The compulsion to create is strong. Sometimes it feels vulnerable to do so. Even a little scary. But she must. It is her place in this world as an artist-writer-person. She knows that maybe what she creates can help others understand, find solace. She hopes. At least it helps her.

This post was written two weeks prior to publication date. One of my favorite bloggers, the incredible Brene Brown, author, speaker, social worker featured artist Wunsch, above, here.