I'm not sure how to talk about my father's death. Maybe a man who's the father of a daughter will understand what it means to be daddy's little girl. Do you ever stop being her even if you both age? I'm not sure. Sometimes I wonder what went through his mind in that moment when his heart finally called it quits. Was he elated that his time had finally arrived and he would now be with the woman he loved with his entire heart and soul? Or did he think of us, his children, or me? I'm inclined to think he might have been elated and I can't hold that against him. He was never quite the same after she died. When he came back from burying her thousands of miles away in his childhood home, near the house he had built for her, something of him had been left behind, buried in the dirt along with her remains. He was never exactly the father I knew. He stopped being him the moment she died. But I wonder if he even knew or understood that? His faith sustained him but I don't think his heart was ever in it.
Now he's gone. I move through his house, his office, his life trying to move forward. My feet moves my body but my mind just wonders, lost among the remnants of his life. I've had my heart broken before, but never by my father. I'm pretty sure that this time its permanent. I have my good days and my bad. Today was a neutral day, neither good nor bad. I spent the weekend playing with dirt. His dirt. The dirt in his garden. I had my husband dig up those damn rose bushes I had wanted my father to remove but he never did. Well they are now gone. He put the one rosebush that I liked in a barrel planter which we stuck in the middle of what used to be my father's vegetable garden. His neighbor commented on how he used to take advantage of the good weather to get an early start on his garden. I hate the fact that his garden is ready and waiting for him but he's never coming back to work on it. Or the fact that his seeds are waiting in the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, labeled by the year they were harvested, waiting for him to plant them. I hate how this whole thing paralyzes me.
Death. How odd that my children and I talk about it like anything else? I can't melodramatically tell my son that I am dying of thirst because he points out to me that he hasn't had a drink all day and he's not dead. My four year old plays with his Flash action figure and we finally notice because he declares in a loud voice to the entire room that the Flash is dying from cancer. He prays for his "Dadu" but he's dead and then he prays for his Grammy Egg and Grand Ian because they are alive. I had to tell my oldest son off today because he was hungry but refused to eat. I told him I will not tolerate the eating habit he picked up from his grandmother because I will be damned if he's going to starve himself to death. Maybe I was exaggerating a bit but he understood me only too well. This is where we are. I have no idea where we will go from here or how.
This is the last place I ever imagined being.
Now he's gone. I move through his house, his office, his life trying to move forward. My feet moves my body but my mind just wonders, lost among the remnants of his life. I've had my heart broken before, but never by my father. I'm pretty sure that this time its permanent. I have my good days and my bad. Today was a neutral day, neither good nor bad. I spent the weekend playing with dirt. His dirt. The dirt in his garden. I had my husband dig up those damn rose bushes I had wanted my father to remove but he never did. Well they are now gone. He put the one rosebush that I liked in a barrel planter which we stuck in the middle of what used to be my father's vegetable garden. His neighbor commented on how he used to take advantage of the good weather to get an early start on his garden. I hate the fact that his garden is ready and waiting for him but he's never coming back to work on it. Or the fact that his seeds are waiting in the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, labeled by the year they were harvested, waiting for him to plant them. I hate how this whole thing paralyzes me.
Death. How odd that my children and I talk about it like anything else? I can't melodramatically tell my son that I am dying of thirst because he points out to me that he hasn't had a drink all day and he's not dead. My four year old plays with his Flash action figure and we finally notice because he declares in a loud voice to the entire room that the Flash is dying from cancer. He prays for his "Dadu" but he's dead and then he prays for his Grammy Egg and Grand Ian because they are alive. I had to tell my oldest son off today because he was hungry but refused to eat. I told him I will not tolerate the eating habit he picked up from his grandmother because I will be damned if he's going to starve himself to death. Maybe I was exaggerating a bit but he understood me only too well. This is where we are. I have no idea where we will go from here or how.
This is the last place I ever imagined being.
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