I couldn't find an appropriate place to post this, but I feel a rather strong need to write this, anonymously. Please move if there is an appropriate place.
I lost my father recently (in October to be specific), and to tell the truth, it hasn't really bothered me until now. My mom called to tell me, and I just said "ok". I mean, I wasn't really fine; looking back, I was fighting back the tears all the time, nearing insomniac, and trying not to think about it at all. I wasn't going to let them see me cry.
I didn't really cry for a few weeks. My ipod was on shuffle; it stopped on Jet's "Hey Kid"; I held in tears the whole bus ride back.
At that moment, I'd come to realize that I hadn't actually said "goodbye". I think my exact words were something akin to "hey, dad. It's me." It tore me up-still does- that I'd failed to do something so simple. It feels wrong, a sin, if I believed in those.
I cry at funerals, that's what I do. I didn't expect this to be any different, and it wasn't. Except that there were two of them; one at home, one for the family that couldn't be there. I wasn't expecting to have to do it twice.
After that, I moved on. I started talking in the past tense so people would ask, and I'd say in a happy voice with a smile that my father had died. They'd pity me, and I'd tell them I'm fine; I always say I'm fine. For all intents and purposes, I had put this behind me.
I think, for the most part, I'd pretended as though nothing had changed; if I thought of it, I'd turn up the volume, and find something to distract me. But like that moment on the bus, it comes, it hits, at the strangest moments.
The other day I realized that I miss hearing him curse downstairs, miss hearing the crash and come running down the stairs to find him sprawled on the floor, blood sugar low, having to haul all 170 lbs of dead weight into a sitting position and fight to fix what had gone wrong. I miss it; it was my life, my life at home. Everywhere else, this life was forgotten. Perhaps that's why I've forgotten it, being away from home. Now it's coming back.
Other things are bothering me to now, like how it bothers me he's buried in Sioux Falls, like how he's been cremated, like how I can't stop thinking about it.
I want to take back everything I said, and I said a lot. At first I thought that because we'd never been close, this would be easier. It's not. And we were closer than I thought.
In some ways, I haven't come to terms with it. It's still not real, and it might never be. At the very least it feels good to talk.