My son turned six months this weekend.
I feel waves of grief again about my dad. Soon it’ll be two years since he fell ill. Snow brings it all back. I wish one day snow would flatten to being just…snow again. Or else I wish I could move to Hawaii and escape it. I’m never sure whether I want to cling desperately to the memories or flee headlong from them.
Two days ago my mom was telling me how much my dad would have loved my son…how he never would have put him down. I’ve tried my best not to board that train of thoughts; not to think about how my dad just missed his grandson and barely saw his granddaughter. But when my mom said that…well, I’ve been crying on and off ever since.
Tonight was the first night in a long night I felt like it was all unbearable, like I didn’t really know how I could live with this pain forever.
I’d been working all weekend on something for my husband, having no time for myself, and thought how upset my dad would have been if he saw that after studying so long I had basically become a trailing spouse. I felt very alone. I feel very alone.
I am starting to feel like it was a long time ago I had a father.
I also feel like the only person my age without a father, though I know it isn’t true. I see the photos on Facebook of people with their dads–I see my father-in-law in my living room, and I wonder why it had to be MY dad who died.
I’ve read a thousand stories like this one, because everybody loses their dad one day, if they are lucky and outlive him. And they are all the same–like my story–words, words, words. We feel feelings, but write words, and it all gets flattened.
So it goes.