It’s one month today since Dad died.
I hate the fact that time keeps moving, that every passing day takes us further away from him. I feel that time itself is betraying him. How can it be that he will only get more distant? That he is never coming back? I see photos of him when he was well (or looked well) and feel absolutely shocked that that man, that Dad is gone forever, and not only the sick version of him I knew during his final months.
I hate that time is moving on because it means everyone else is, too. It means that this journey, this grief, once over-crowded with spectators and well-wishers and even drama seekers, is increasingly lonely. Flowers and meals are no longer delivered daily to our door, and in truth we don’t need them anymore. Friends care deeply, but grief is so personal and so unpredictable that they often don’t know what to say, whether to ask questions or avoid the subject, whether it’s okay to joke yet. Most people have continued with life as usual, the earth continues to turn, and we are left to the quiet tasks of reforming our lives; packing up his clothes and mementos, sitting quietly in a house that rings with memories, trying to sleep.
My life will never be the same again. I miss my dad constantly. And though I know I will someday find a “new normal,” I am nowhere near it today.