I had a moment of panic tonight. I couldn’t find my black ribbon. I mean I tore up the house, walked around outside with a flashlight, stormed around the kitchen, but to no avail.

Finally, when I decided to stop looking, I found it on the floor next to the computer.

The ribbon was given to me just prior to my father’s funeral. The rabbi pinned it to my suit jacket and instructed me to wear it for one week. He said to keep it on the left side of my chest. Because I am a “direct” descendant of my father’s, the ribbon should be worn close to the heart.

During the funeral, the rabbi made a small cut in the ribbon with a razor. This is to replace the old tradition of rending the garment. Rather than tear up a suit jacket or a shirt, the ribbon serves as a symbolic torn garment. I’ve dutifully worn the ribbon since the funeral. I’m supposed to wear it for a week, and then I will put it away. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, but it doesn’t seem right to get rid of it.

However, when I couldn’t find the ribbon tonight, I can’t even describe how awful I felt. It’s not so much the symbolism; I could easily pin a different ribbon to my shirt and still fulfill my mourning duties. It was the thought that the ribbon that had been given to me, was lying somewhere, rather than being safely affixed to my shirt.

To me, it deserved a better fate than ending up in a Target parking lot. I know that seems silly, but it’s as if it’s a piece of my father that I need to hang on to.

Seeing the ribbon on the desk next to me while I am typing this is strangely comforting. It’s been a week since my father died, and I’m beginning to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. But this whole issue with the ribbon tells me that I’m probably not completely ready to let him go. Logically, I know it’s all part of the grieving process. Emotionally, I know that 42 years of memories are far more meaningful than a strip of black ribbon. But for now, I’m hanging on to that ribbon as my way of paying tribute to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

By Richard Ross

Written in honor of his father, Earl Ross, a Montgomery Hospice patient who died on December 24, 2007.

Originally published in the Washington Post; Thursday, January 24, 2008