my father died 17 days ago and i feel guilty for feeling normal for whole stretches of time. hours. days. whole minutes and half hours with just thoughts but no pain. what is this strange mourning? have i never grieved? why am i so puzzled, listless, dull and confused?
the first 10 days, it was different. so very. there was so much to do. a funeral to plan. a beneficiary to be. it was all so fresh then. all i could think was, “my father died. my father–he… what–?”
i trailed off mentally, emotionally, verbally. started having trouble finishing sentences. completing thoughts. answering questions. remembering things. i know my dad is dead, but i don’t know what to ask, what to think, how to feel, how to process.
i am of two minds: 1) i know he was ill, i know he was tired. he was 71. a host of ailments. his *time* was drawing near. he sent me the papers. i know he knew. but 2) i just talked to him. i just talked to him. i JUST talked to him. i told him i was on my way.
i think the same things over and over. actually, i know #1, but i think irrationally/mostly about #2.
for the first 10 days, the pain sprang to life at the merest provocation: looking into his wallet, seeing his face on his license. waking up before dawn, remembering he is gone.
my daddy is dead.
and now, 17 days later, guilt. why am i not crying every day? how can my heart only break randomly? how can i still smile? pay bills. wash dishes. sleep.
this makes more sense to me. the pain feels most right. i look at the gmail calender. sickly organized, i must have documented in the small box that is october 21, 2010, “Dad died 13:36.”
as if…i could ever forget.
Nonfiction Woman 