judging. judging self all over every thought. paralyzed by repetitive thoughts. maybe i should find the joy in repetition? keep thinking i should write something, quick. jot down a note, a word, a few graphs on how i feel about this day, my dad’s first birthday post-mortem. judging though. self. the unwritten. the readership. what will the people think if i constantly write my obsessive father-death thoughts? what i should really ask is what will happen if i don’t? what if i don’t record or remember this period of time when thoughts of my father’s such recent passing dominate my thoughts. day in, day out. at night, i remember him best. his smiles, his laughter, his jokes, his oh-so-country voice… deep southern drawl. i didn’t know how country he was until i heard him speak in front of others. didn’t know how southern i’d carried my own tones until i spoke in front of others… today, he would have turned 72. today his precious packers finally made it to and won the superbowl. (actually, i don’t know if they ever made it in my lifetime. certainly doesn’t seem like it.) i remember my dad would watch monday night football. as always, laid out on the living room floor. plate of food or not, lazy, dozing, half-watching, cracking jokes, postulating… the tv would blare that song….
this morning, when i logged onto facebook, my cousin had tagged me in this photo of him.
instant tears.
when was this? when did he celebrate new years without me?
regrets.
this was a little over one year ago.
i kick myself for not knowing he was dying.
i don’t remember ever ringing in the new year with him. we didn’t do enough of anything together. holidays. traditions. he resisted, i procrastinated. my mother and her jehovah witness bullshit ruined lots of fun lots of years when we would have, could have, should have. no point in regrets though… all we had was our own short time… what i should hold on to is what we talked about while riding in his old intrepid. what we laughed about on countless phone calls. what he imparted about my brother. my mother. his history. his lessons.
i sit here, rocking silently. holding on to my self and reaching toward my own future. can’t stop looking back. still can’t really process the sudden and complete absence of this person. fuck all that shit about he lives on in spirit, in heaven, and wherever else. i get that i can hold onto that stuff. but something about the very finite end of my father is a bit baffling. even/especially when i look at that picture of him.
the day he died, maybe 6, 7 hours after, i saw him in the funeral home. he was not yet embalmed. he was still swollen with life, his normal color. he even had an expression of surprise on his face. his eyebrows were raised and yet he looked so tired. a face he made when he was disoriented with sleep. i touched his head, rubbed his hair, soft as a newborn’s… i never touched him when he was living. we were not those people. but in death, i freely touched his skin. cool. moist. clean. changing. the undertaker watched me. tears fell from my eyes as i studied every inch of him, walking along the gurney, tentatively, possessively studying my father. i was the representative. his next of kin. the one they called. and i felt so alone. closer to him than i’d ever been, in this with him, the one he chose, and so alone. my mother was no help. my brother, my half-siblings, later, supportive, polite. my boyfriend, helpful. my daughter, watchful, polite. my breakdowns in later weeks, scattered, random. on the phone with my homegirl from high school. at a cousin’s house while half-drunk. on the floor, halfway in my closet, halfway through making dinner…. triggers. i avoid looking at the pictures. sometimes they break through.
i didn’t plan to go here tonight. i have an interview tomorrow. this is T tidying her emotions and running away until next time. must sleep. til then… here’s that joy in repetition…
Nonfiction Woman 