Their Bad Mother

A year ago, I wrote this:

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.

One year ago, and the grief has not lessened. It’s not as all-encompassing as it was one year ago, but although I no longer dwell upon it every hour, it has become, in some ways, deeper. When I do stop to reflect upon that grief, I recognize it as a grief that has settled into the deepest reaches of my heart. I recognize it as a grief that I will carry always.

I am carrying that grief. It is no less heavy for the distance I have travelled.

Join the Discussion
comments powered by Disqus