On the nights I lay awake, staring at a ceiling that looks like yours, I wonder if you’re looking down on me from up there.
I mean, T. Swift has a point. Bandaids don’t fix bullet holes. And time, as forgiving as it can be, does not swoop in like a magical antidote and permanently smooth out the left over scab. If the mark was deep enough, the scab will scar. And the scar will stay.
The seven stages of grief absolutely exist. They come in waves, and there is no acceptable time frame in which one can pass through them.
Everyone in our family has a significant other, and you were always my plus one.
We’ve been loseable and we are loseable and we’re getting more loseable every day. And yet, are we really doing such a good job of loving? Are we really doing such a great job of holding? Are we here when we’re here? Are we there when we’re there?
Lately I’ve been entertaining the notion that
We can be irreparably broken.
Love them. Love them so much you want them to hold on until they are nothing but skin and bone. Love them so much that their skeletal form is better than them achieving peace at last. Forbid them from leaving you.
Last July, I joined a super secret club with an exclusive guest list. You couldn’t be in the club, unless you met a specific criterion. I joined the “Dead Dads Club.”
I wanted to tell you that I’m still hoping for a miracle. Please don’t leave me because I will miss you so much if you go. Please stay because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle this alone.
But because you are not here, I have to live out the legacy that you left, and I hope I am making you proud of the person you taught me to be.