Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Two Years

Dad & Me, Riverside Park, 1998

Two years ago today, my father died.

It was not the least bit unexpected.

He was nearly 93 (less than 2 weeks shy of his birthday).

He was gaunt, frail, a shell of his former self.

He had been actively dying for three months.

But still, there was a shockwave.

Suddenly a crack in the atmosphere of the world.

A sharp dividing line, a before and after:

The world with my father in it on one side.

On the other, the world without.


There was a howling Nor' Easter that day.

So unlike the near seventy degree early spring this March has brought us.

March 2010 was cold and snowy. A bitter thing.

Gray outside to match my inner grisaille.

He died as he lived.

On his own terms.

Surrounded by people he loved.

With great drama just beforehand.

And then, very quietly, neatly done.

He just... stopped.

Moments either before or after midnight.

March 13th, 2010

I write this now at the juncture. The end of year two, the beginning of year three without a father.

I know it gets easier with time. It already has.

But today is still tough.

And full of to-dos, no time to mourn.

So I will make do with little momentary pauses; a sliver of grieving, slipped into the cracks of life.

I will carry his photo with me today.

To remember.

To keep him present (though he ever is).

I was lucky to have had him for nearly fifty years.

Now two years gone.

Two years.

Just Write

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