It’s hard to write about the death of a close person. I know, because I’ve been struggling with it during the past 3 weeks.
Every time I start to type or write about it, my mind gets numb and my fingers ache (maybe it’s the cold).
Like now, it’s almost like I can’t compose more than two sentences together, they can’t make sense. The words don’t seem natural or honest, they’re just weird to read and to write, and I start to wonder if I should just stop typing and delete the post… not this time, it won’t happen now.
It’s hard to write about those feelings, when I’m not even sure about how I feel. I guess I’ve had enough time to compose my mind, but there are small things that I still think are there (like the daily phone calls or the daily thoughts and inside jokes shared with the other person).
When I wake up, I still think that I’ve got to call my dad. But it only takes me less than a second to realize that won’t happen again.
When I turn my ipod on and The Year of the Cat starts playing, I can only think of those half an hours in the ICU, sharing an headphone with my dad, hoping for him to wake up from the comma.
When I see something new, my brain still tells me to call up my dad or take note about it to tell him later.
I still see men at the street, a little bald, with a beard or in plaid shirts that remind me of him. But none of them are him.
It’s when I get home after these busy days I’ve been having, when I realize that yeah, my father is dead. It’s only then when I stop to think about it, and even then it doesn’t seem real. I don’t know why I am expecting him to call me up and ask me about my day and whether or not I’ve had dinner yet. He always asked me twice, as if he wanted to make sure I had eaten. “Yes, dad, I’ve told you before -don’t you listen to me?” Oh, but he did. He did listen to me.
Maybe I was the only one he listened to.
Now I know that, this Christmas, when I sit down at the table, I will miss having him by my right side, telling me not to drink too much or banning me from clearing off the table (I’m clumsy and I drop a glass EVERY year). I will miss seeing him wearing his red scarf (even though I kept it for myself now). And I will miss, even if it’s tough to admit, his nicotine stained fingers and moustache. And his yelling. And his frown lines. This New Year’s Eve, I know my fingers will automatically search up his number on my phone and I will try to call him up to wish him a happy New Year.
And next year, when I graduate, I will still miss him.
Actually, I don’t think I will ever stop missing him.