On August 24, 1991, my father, W. Reynold Brown, died in West Nebraska. His remains are buried in the prairie cemetery near his home.

I dislike using the word “died” because the accepted euphemisms conjure the same limited thoughts. 
Passed. Expired. Perished. End.  

These words perpetuate the belief that life is no longer present, alive, or active in our conscious reality. 
But this couldn’t be further from the truth. 
I know this. I experienced it. I have seen it with my own eyes. 

I can feel another’s presence when no one is standing near me. Somehow, my body registers the existence of a physical signature. Another living being is present, yet invisible.
How is this possible? I don’t have the answer. 

Do I have unique ‘eyes’? Is my skin different from my siblings, parents, or ancestors? Or different from you? I don’t know. How is it I can sense the presence of another being? I have no more receptors than the next person, yet I can taste and smell their odor, perfume, tobacco, medicine, or an individual’s disease long after they took their last breath, years after they took their last breath.

I knew when my father died. I knew it before I got the phone call. I had woken up in the early morning, sensing his touch and gentle kiss. “Goodbye,” he said.

I lay there breathing quietly, listening for any other sign from him. But there was nothing more. He was gone. 
I started my prayers, the Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s for Dad. I lay waiting for the phone call. 
An hour later, it rang through. I leaped from the bed and ran down the hall to grab the princess phone before its third ring.

“Hello, Franz,” I answered (before caller-ID existed.) I glanced up at the CooCoo clock in the hall; just then, the carved little bird came out of its wooden cabin and chirped, “Coo Coo” four times.

“Dad died an hour ago.” He responded; the bird finished its fourth chirp and retreated into its tiny house.
“Mom got here after he passed,” Franz added. His voice was weary from the weight of Dad’s death.

“Thank you, Franz, for everything.” I said, “For standing by, for caring.”

“I better go. I need to call everyone else.” 

My seven siblings would hear the news soon. 

I gently set the phone into its receiver to not wake my two young daughters or aunt whom we were visiting. I slowly slumped down to the carpeted floor, letting the tears flow. 

But I needed more than to cry; I needed to sob deeply, to let go of everything. I wanted to shed the past 17 years of caring, waiting, and slowly watching my father’s body fail. 

All my mother’s work and love had poured into him to keep him with us as long as possible. She was our heroine, stepping forward to take the role which doctors and therapists could not. 
But all this, all the caregiving, the medical and hospital runs, the dietary needs, and the physical therapy Mom provided, was now over. The endless work ceased the moment Dad died. 

I flipped on the shower and stepped inside the tile box. My heart poured out as the water rushed over me. Releasing, letting go. I told Dad, “I know you will always be close. But now you can heal. And when you’re ready, come back.”
“Let me know when you are well. Let me know when you are nearby. Dad, I love you.”

Today may be the anniversary of Dad’s death, but he never ceased to exist. He made a transition from the physical to the non-physical. He stepped out of his body and now roams freely about the universe.

Dad stops in now and then, unexpectedly, to help guide me; he takes my hand. I can smell the turpentine he used when he mixed his oil paints on his glass pallet. Sometimes, when I need my Daddy, he makes these tiny kissing sounds near my ear, like a parent bird to its’ hatchling. I smell his aftershave, too, a subtle scent. I know it is him. 

Dad never died or ceased to exist. He just moved on to an unencumbered place, one without the restrictions and limitations of our body, our preconceived notions of what life is or is not. 

On October 18, 1917, one hundred and six years ago, Dad tried on a suit — the human body. He stayed in this body until it no longer fit, discarding it on August 24, 1991.