We lost dad a year ago today — technically; the call came a year ago yesterday, but he was still with us, even though the end was inevitable — and since then every time the phone rings, I hesitate before I pick it up. And I take a breath. Because I vividly remember the moment before. The breath before I heard my mother’s voice and knew she wasn’t just calling to say hi. The breath before she asked if I was alone, or sitting down. The second before she said, “Dad had a fall.” The last moment where I had a dad who shared the world with me, where everything was normal and happy and we all felt whole.

And now every time that phone goes, I can’t help it. I stop. Without meaning to, I take stock of what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, what I’m wearing even, where the boys are, what they last said, what I last said, whether I said the right things to everyone. Wondering if this is just another moment before. And wondering when I will stop wondering, and fearing that the minute I do, it will happen again.

About these ads

One response to “Grief

  1. I just lost my father yesterday, very unexpectedly.
    This post on grief and the others on the loss of your father speaks to me on so many more levels now than it ever did before. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. Thank you for your eloquent writing