My father died six months ago today. To be continued.
It’s eight minutes until the end of the anniversary that I thought would never come. As always, I am too busy, fatigued, overextended, and overwhelmed to even be sad. I can’t reflect like I should, like I must.
The universe is crafty. From month to month, I find myself unable to feel the way I want to on the 14th. Something always comes up in my life that keeps me occupied on that date. I think it’s the symbolic culmination of subconcious efforts to put aside the pain. The harder I work, the less time I have to reflect. By the time I’m no longer working, I have already fallen asleep.
I’m really doing okay now, after six months, but am I? Because when I drop everything for a moment, I start to cry.
Two months and ten days until I leave the country.