The cicadas serenade in unison as I sit on my deck and enjoy the splendor of a September Harvest moon. A cool autumn breeze caresses my skin as a gentle reminder that summer has come to an end. Leaves will soon turn colors and wistfully fall from the trees as a final farewell to an Indian summer.

Enveloped in the darkness of the night skies, a quiet sadness overtakes me and I mourn in silence the loss of my dad; it will be six years next week. There are no tears left for me to cry, I have only the loneliness of this moment and treasured memories not forgotten.

The moonlight casts shadows that seem to dance in the darkness of the night. I listen intently for my dad to whisper words to comfort me; I hear nothing. Perhaps the cicadas have drowned out his voice. And so, I do the only thing I know to do when grief pays me a visit, I pray.

In my prayerful solitude I find a spiritual comfort and peace that temporarily sustains the burden of my loss. It continues to be an ongoing ritual between God and me and even the sound of tonight’s cicadas can’t conceal the prayers I voice to the heavens.

As the moon moves further away from the earth, I say goodnight to my dad and all those who reside beyond tonight’s Harvest moon. I take one last look at the heavens before I call it a night and whisper, “God is good.”