Only 10 mourners were allowed at his funeral, his final journey. His grandchildren missed their last chance to say goodbye, his brothers and sisters, too.

It’s the normal order of things, of course – parents are meant to die first. But finding a path through grief, to acceptance, is rocky terrain. Doubly so during a pandemic. I read books, sought therapy, drank too much. But in the depths of our second lockdown, I found solace, too.

I think of his connection to the earth, to its wildness, and to us. I like to believe there’s some remnant of his spirit in the fabric of the natural world.

On the fence of the cemetery not far from our Melbourne home, someone long ago affixed a poem. I’ve seen it before in glib sympathy cards, heard it read at funerals.
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep
I am not there
I do not sleep

Grief invites this kind of magical thinking. When I visit the cemetery, when I see the rabbits and birds there, I think of my father. I look for signs of the supernatural, the unexplained, the eternal. I think of his connection to the earth, to its wildness, and to us. I like to believe there’s some remnant of his spirit in the fabric of the natural world.

I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain

It’s late one night when I see him. On the lush, grassy stretch of MacPherson Street, beside the cemetery. He’s focused on the ground, his attention diverted. I’m downwind, he hasn’t noticed me – the memory of childhood, the spotlight, the rifle.

I’m just a few metres away when he senses me. He stares with dark eyes, ears turning left and right. I hold my hands out open-palmed, as though such signs could be universal. I breathe deeply, slowly, fully present in the moment for the first time in months.

As you awake with morning’s hush
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the day transcending night

A few seconds pass, an eternity, and he turns his head. He trots through the fence and glides into the blackness of the cemetery, to his home. To the place where my father rests.

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In the months since that first encounter, I’ve seen him once or twice, but never as close. As Melbourne slowly opens up, and life returns to its busyness and distractions, the foxes have retreated. Their image in my mind has begun to fade, and it’s become harder to see, to imagine, to feel.

Still, I walk by the cemetery each night. Still, I look for him there.

Do not stand
By my grave, and cry
I am not there
I did not die

Because sometimes, it’s better to imagine. Sometimes, it’s better to believe.