PlazaJen: Passion Knit

...When I'm 64?

Dad would have been 64 today. Some times, very rarely, but still, some days I let myself pretend for just a second that it all never happened. That it was a bad dream, a mistake, a dastardly soap opera plot in which he was forced to fake his demise and a storyline that will see him returned to his rightful place in our lives. It's like taking a smoke break, stepping into a bubble outside of the Dead Parent Club meeting room. I'll never spend more than a second there, but oddly enough it's quite ethereal.

I did pretty well until our family friend sent a second email (the first was about taxes, I'm utterly confused) telling me he was thinking about my dad today. Yeah, me too, but having it acknowledged by someone who feels it on some level, too, just cut too close to the quick.

I've spoken to a couple of friends, both of whom are 15-20+ years older than me, and both said that they :still: wish they could talk to their mom or dad. That they are the person they want to call on the phone and just tell things to. I trust that these feelings do get easier, and their experiences help illustrate it. When I hear people's birthdays announced on NPR, I feel resentment when they say anyone who's outlived my father. That'll go, too, I assume. Eventually. My progress? A co-worker who didn't work here when my dad died asked about him, and I said he had died, and he asked when, and how. I was stunned I could answer without falling apart or even tearing up.

Small steps are still steps. But this is one day when I wish it were all different and I was calling him and laughing and to apologize again that my card was late and saying I love you and finding out what he was going to have for dinner.

Labels: grief, the next year