My Father’s Final Gift
From the banks of Ocquionis
As I write this, it’s been just a few hours since my father drew his last breath. Just that one sentence, though. It would take me a week to return to the otherwise blank screen.
I write, thinking I have something profound to say; about how to always live without regret and tell others you love them. You know, the usual prompts that pop up every time we lose someone near and dear to our hearts.
Truth be told, I have no regrets, and my father and I exchanged expressions of love regularly. There was no unresolved disagreement or concern over what he thought I thought of him. He knew I cared for him deeply, and I knew the same.
But, still.
How do you write about your feelings when you aren’t sure what they are? How do you explain that pulling nag you have in the pit of your stomach that won’t go away — not even if you take deep breaths, drink, dance, sing, laugh, cry or even write? I am at a loss because I don’t know if the right words even exist.
I am a daughter who is hurting. I am a wife who’s putting more focus on herself right now. I’m a friend who is leaning on others way more than she thought she ever would, sometimes more than she thinks she should. I am a human mom to a beautiful dog and cat, whom I rely upon to comfort me…
