In 2015, I wrote for my father; I stood on that cold stage, clouded with strange air, scrubbing feelings that drifted into the beyond without an answer.
I don't think anyone could ever come to terms with losing a parent, it is one of life's wicked certainties, you know it's going to happen, you fear it happening, you pray it won't happen; not too soon, never too soon, yet no pleading is ever enough to prevent it from happening.
I still have lingering questions, I still have stilled-conversations that I do not wish to have with anybody else, but it is not up to me anymore, that door is closed shut in-front of me.
I do not get to share my growth; the growth he always encouraged and celebrated (no matter how small it was) I do not get to share how far I have come.
Is that fair?
My words arrange themselves only to come out upside down. Perhaps I am upside down.
I miss my father.
I am in-need of my father.
I wish I could, again, call back all the stolen moments I tried to squeeze-in with him, back when his laughter was alive in-spite of all the pain.
This time, I want them back for me. This time I want to have them, just for me.
God.
At times like this, I think life -with all its sour fruits- is vanishing inside of me, I think it is drowning parts of me, I walk into a room full of my loved ones and I am quiet. I silence my own voice, sure that no one could truly fill this void.
