In the aftermath of my father’s terminal cancer diagnosis, I “repatriated” myself into small town life in my hometown in rural Minnesota.

Among the major cultural differences between life in downtown Chicago and a prairie town of 1,500 people (population, ethnic food, lack of diversity, etc.) lie a few more insignificant quirks. Everybody knows each other. The same woman has been working at the grocery store since I was a child, my best friends’ parents run many of the businesses in town, people I don’t even recognize call me by name when I see them at the library. And because of this connectedness, one cannot simply mail a package or buy the newspaper or stop in to the butcher for a round tip steak without answering a line of questioning that always began with:

“How is your Dad doing?”

What began as a gentle and compassionate question over time became draining. As my dad’s condition worsened, especially in the last year, I began dreading this question, always bracing myself for the inevitable. I started to wish that these sweet, well-meaning people would stop inquiring about our precious and fragile life five miles outside of town. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I didn’t want to see my grade school teacher at the bank or chat with someone at the grocery store about my dad being on hospice.

I began channeling the poem The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shihab Nye, especially when at the grocery store.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven’t seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don’t start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

And now that he’s gone, the questions continue. “How are you doing? How is your mom? Will you stick around town for a while?”

As I practice my cabbage transfiguration, I will be true to myself. As I think about what it feels like to be a leaf, I will begin to be free. And as I continue in this life, I will think about the ways I am present and compassionate with the people I encounter on our shared journey of grief.

– Elisabeth Fondell