"Of all the Kazakhs who sing French songs on Chinese singing competition shows, he's my favorite"

The Boys

Our Finest, Our Spacemen, looking for anything like monks. I was looking for pictures of young Neil Armstrong, I love his boyish smile and his famous terrestrial foot on extraterrestrial dust.

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.

Like she wrote it for me.

Resumé

Related Poem Content Details

BY DOROTHY PARKER

Razors pain you; 

Rivers are damp; 

Acids stain you; 

And drugs cause cramp. 

Guns aren’t lawful; 

Nooses give; 

Gas smells awful; 

You might as well live.

Life Lesson, 2016

You shouldn't wait for people. You shouldn't compromise for people. The only person that matters is you. Once you get you settled, then take care of others. Like an airplane.

So, you already made your bed, lie in it. But don't do that again.

Sick sick, sick dad.

He's not having a great day. I sent him an email of encouragement, but I don't know how good that is. I have been slowly turning off my powers of empathy for the past couple of years, which is really helping me cope with life, but is really shit for being a friend, being a daughter. A friend tells me they're having a rough time... I don't even know what to do anymore. "Crime...boy, I don't know." I'm Robert Richie when I should be trying to be Jed Bartlett.

New York, Newwww York

I miss them. I miss my mom, she is my goodness I think.
I miss my dad, and I think he is dying. I think that I'm not supposed to think that. I'm supposed to understand that he's getting better. But I need a number, I need a stage that this is at. Stage 1, that would be great. Well, not great. But better than stage 4.