Their Bad Mother

My father died last week. My Dad, who I loved so very much, who I will always love so very, very much. We still don’t know when or how, exactly – he was alone, and the circumstances of his death are, for the moment, more or less unknown – and that leaves us in a sort of purgatory, until tomorrow, anyway, until after the weekend and the world resumes its business and we can turn to those whose business is death and seek answers. But for now all we can do is grieve, and begin the long, arduous process of sorting out his affairs, and leave worrying about the mystery surrounding his death until tomorrow. Tomorrow. I long for tomorrow, and I dread it.

The grief will be no less acute tomorrow – I expect it to worsen as we learn more – but at least there will be more to do.

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