I Think It Comes In Waves

Dad died January 15th at 7pm. My brother was at yoga, I was playing with the kid that my neighbor was babysitting while she made biscuits and talked to me. My mom was in the next room, or maybe she was checking if he needed morphine, but didn't realize he had died. He was so still, so glassy eyed, near the end, it was hard to tell without checking his breath. The brash nurse was there, the worst person to have near you when your father dies. He died over a month ago. Today is the 21st, more than 30 days later. I've had a weird day, emotional, maybe influenced by menstrual hormones and lack of sleep, but also maybe this is grief.

Maybe this is grief. For me it comes in waves. slow waves, with time in between. Maybe it's more like tides. Hello, high tide. The water comes in, I miss my father. It hasn't consumed me, but the water is up to my chin, and I'm a little overwhelmed. I miss my father, I can't call him. I miss my father, who will tell me stories? I miss my father, I don't think I talked to him enough. I miss my father, and he is very gone. I have him in a jar on my shelf. I have him in two photos hanging in my room, and two poems he gave me, tacked to the walls.  That's not enough, but it keeps the waves at bay, sometimes.

Everyone's father dies. Don't they. It's not special.

I can't stop talking about him. Bringing him up in conversation. I shy from telling people he died. They look sad when I tell them and I don't know what to say. I want them to listen to me tell them about him, when he was alive. The things he did (oh! the things he did!), the things he said (oh! the things he said!) I want them to revel in his presence through my voice. And say the thing they always say - "man, I really want to meet your dad." Now they make a sad face, don't say anything.

I'm too afraid to read the emails we sent back and forth near the end. I'm afraid I left him hanging, didn't answer. I'm afraid of finding proof that I, I don't know, abandoned him? I want to read them though. I want to hear him again. I've been watching videos, looking at photos. I should have taken more.

Grief lives inside regret. It locks the doors. It's so hard to evict.