I’ve tried to write this particular post multiple times already, and for the life of me I can’t get it right. I want to it to be pensive and inspiring but it won’t be that. It’ll be another post from a person who’s lost a loved one.
The previous attempts had all the stereotypical tropes. I claimed that it didn’t feel real. (Which it doesn’t.) And that he would be back any day. (Which he won’t.) but right as I got to talking about my doubled responsibilities my brain shuts off and I am incapable of forming thoughts. Ill take the hint, brain. It’s too much.
Regardless, today is/was my pops birthday. He would have been 67, which to me is entirely too young. Some of the most influential women in my life lived to be 80 and 95. So 66 is far too young to pass. Especially since he wasn’t ready to die.
My father fell and hit his head. In a matter of hours he was gone and left behind a body that could only stay alive by assistance. Once that help was removed (by my request) he was gone in less than a minute.
He wasn’t old enough to die.
The thing I battle with the most is do I miss my father or do I miss that my father cared for my failing mother? The second feels so cheap and selfish and if that is the case I hate that person. But it is very possible. Since his passing the burden of caring for my mother has fallen to me. And only me. And I don’t want it.
Today though… it is very real that I miss my dad. I miss his trademark laugh and sigh I could get him to do. (I loved making him laugh.) I miss that I won’t be getting him a birthday card. I miss that he won’t get to go to Red Lobster for the all you can eat shrimp and only getting one additional order, which he would take to go. (This is genuinely making me laugh by the way.)
I wrote on twitter the weird pattern of my patriarchal line of poetry… I am the age that my father was when I was born. And I am also the age he was when he lost his father. The same amount of time existed in our hello and goodbye. (I suppose it always does though.)