Day-to-day life does a fairly good job of covering up the bigger picture, with its mundane moments building upon each other to create a thick tapestry of denial, or something like it.
As time has passed, so has my willingness to confront what’s been taken from us.
Every Hebrew letter feels a bit of a torment—a reminder not just of the bad Jew I am but also the good Jew he so badly wanted to be.
The hardest part of grieving is having nothing to say.
I can deal with my father’s death, even if it’s tragic and awful and makes me want to puke—I have seen this now, that I can survive a worst-case-scenario, that surviving it is no longer an idyllic, future happening, but a reality that I’ve been thrust into.
I’m another souvenir, amongst many, from the various journeys through time that my father took. Perhaps more deeply rooted, being his child, but still a part of a much larger picture.
I’m afraid that going home will make his absence that much stronger, more biting than it’s already been. I’m afraid that seeing this same sadness on hundreds of faces, rather than five, will make it hurt that much more.
I’m of the mindset that everything happens for a reason, with the caveat of: if you search hard enough for that reason. So, I’ve been digging relentlessly to try to find one, looking inside myself with the hope that I’ll figure out what this little life hiccup wants to tell me/what I can learn. I’m realizing, instead, that I might just have to succumb to the reality that these epiphanies rarely happen right away.
Death is a situation that we’re forced to absorb, and to watch others surrender to. It’s one of the few real facts of life, but its fidelity isn’t sweet, like a recurring rash with no known cure.