Again. My long lost father has died.

Just before Christmas and mere weeks before my son and I were to fly out to meet him.

One morning I placed Robert Guy Ferguson’s memorial card directly beneath the brass holy water font I uncovered amidst the ruins of my mother’s childhood home in Matapédia and couldn’t help but think of all that I’ve lost, been denied. I went there to search so many times, in vain, the truth so close, yet so far. The extent of her betrayal continues to baffle and astound, its fallout relentless. There is no why but still I cry and rail at the universe knowing my anger is futile.

I struggle with guilt, regrets. Perhaps I should have left for Ontario immediately upon locating him. There was a time in my life when I could have dropped everything and gone out there but these days I’m chained to a small business. If only…

I won’t allow myself to dwell on the pain or bitterness but must work hard to assimilate all these feelings.

I dreamed a visceral dream. Though I can’t recall his exact words, Dad spoke kindly in a deep voice and said, “I’m fine.” Observing his white hair, I felt his presence strongly and woke feeling melancholy, but more, calm and peaceful.

I don’t believe in the supernatural or ghosts-realize that the dream is all my mind’s doing-but feel I am getting to know the man-his spirit-through all those who loved him. For that I am grateful. Their big hearts, welcoming arms, warmth and unconditional love undoubtedly model our father and the way he was.

I am proud to be his daughter, part of his legacy. I may not have had the privilege of knowing him but find solace knowing I’ve inherited some of his traits, that he lives on in me, in all of us.