In honor of Georgia Darehshori and her beloved Gholi—for reminding us that love sees beyond the veil, and stories keep the light alive. E.Z.
“Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” — Kahlil Gibran
My father is missing.
Not in body—
but in the margins.
I’ve searched through every crack
and crevice of familiar territory,
combed the corners of his mind
like a child calling out in a crowd.
But the man I knew—
he’s vanished
between the lines.
Alzheimer’s—
that slow thief in the night—
steals him in whispers,
in fragments,
in sighs.
Each day,
a little more of him
slips through the net of memory.
I grieve
not just: Art—
the man,
but the erasure
of what made him solid—
vital, quick-witted, exuberant.
Now he sits,
hunched and hollow-eyed,
floating between moments
of brief, vibrant clarity.
And at his side—
my mother.
Still.
After fifty-five years.
Gentle. Tireless.
Pouring light into every crack,
loving him back to life,
moment by moment.
But even light gets weary.
Some days,
she vanished too—
not in body,
but in spirit.
They live on Sunnyside Street.
But I wonder—
how much of their “sunny side”
has been eclipsed
by this illness’ shadow?
One afternoon,
he turned to me and asked—
“How the hell am I going to get to heaven?”
His voice was lost between
fear and frustration.
“I’m no good to anyone.
I’m not useful.
I’m not contributing.
I’m not anything.”
And I—
his daughter—
could only sit beside him,
heart cracked open,
cradling the weight
of both our questions.
But something sacred
shimmered in the quiet space between the words.
That last conversation—
more than memory.
It was presence.
And it changed everything.
For their 55th anniversary,
I gave my parents a gift—
a private screening in my high school theatre.
Just the three of us.
After hours.
I had the keys.
I’d created a film—
Unforgettable—
a love story in pictures and sound:
Nat King Cole,
old dogs,
immigration snapshots,
messages from friends,
the life they built together.
When it ended,
no one spoke.
My mother cried.
My father seemed… angry.
Lost. Confused.
The next morning,
a call from a friend—
a local officer.
My father had wandered into town
in pajamas and slippers,
searching for a flower shop.
Devastated
he had forgotten his anniversary.
It shattered me.
And then—
that moment.
Sitting in the car,
hands frozen on the wheel,
somewhere between
celebration and collapse,
I remembered
the Ojibwe wisdom:
“Sometimes I go about in pity for myself,
and all the while
a great wind is bearing me across the sky.”
And in that silence,
I saw him.
Not the mind unraveling,
but the soul
still shining.
Beyond biology.
Beyond disease.
What remained—
was love.
Only love.
That…
that was heaven.
Not above,
but here.
Not later,
but now.
When the mind lets go,
sometimes the soul steps in.
I walked through the door.
And there he was—
not in thought,
but in being.
Brilliant.
Kind.
Eyes like a child
just beginning again.
He was not fading.
He was returning.
To innocence.
To spirit.
To source.
And if his journey taught me anything,
it is this:
The present moment
is the only time that is.
And the soul
is not something you lose—
it’s what you see
when all else falls away.
My father taught me
the Art of letting go.
Not in despair,
but in faith.
He taught me
how the falls of life
can generate energy
to carry us
somewhere new.
And a week later,
he left us.
I found my father today—
in my son’s arms,
in my daughter’s voice,
in the stillness of a love
And just then—
a breeze moved through me.
A great wind
bearing me
across the sky.
So I say now,
with every breath I am:
God bless my father,
who art in Heaven.
How great thou Art.
