i wrote out his obituary with a thick kindergartner's pencil, on the back of the factsheet that my sister gave me, under orders to make it good. he was 68 years old, we have the priviledge to keep writing and writing and still, while it goes to the papers today, long and taking up lots of space... still it feels like nothing, so flimsy, so lightweight and flapping listlessly from the line... my dad was not that kind of man, that easy to sum-up kind of person. none of us are, not even that guy over there that we think we know.
i know all about the stages of grief, and sudden loss, i have seen them written and now i get to watch myself and all those nearby me go through them too. we are bereft. and we keen. and we fear the suddenness of this change, the things imagined which we won't see. the loss is great, and i don't know how to keep feeding my kids and yet i will.
i've gotten deliveries of warm bread, and soups and stews and i've seen my brother sister and mother near collapse and spill over into it. and i've been there, i was right there. and i've seen it and know it to be real, so real. and while i pine away for the man i must internalize, i am so glad that i had my forty years with him, and so grateful that I have a part of his measure. and yes, i can make the hookshot he taught me so many years ago. (most of the time)
i love you, world. and forgive me if i drop off the end of you again and again. i have lost my middle.