I’m pretty sure there will come a time when I don’t know exactly how many days it has been since my father passed away, but that time hasn’t come yet. I woke up this morning and reminded myself that it’s been 60 days that he’s been gone. Someday I’m going to lose count of the days but I’m not sure if that will make me feel better or worse.
Over the last two months I’ve told a lot of stories about my father but I have a whole bunch of stray memories that don’t really have stories attached to them, they are just…things he did. I suppose I could build some mythology around them but that feels like cheating; I’ll get to them at some point. Lately I keep thinking of the small things he used to do , like mailing me The Mets season preview every year, or putting clips from (sometimes pornographic) movies on to mix tapes and I wish I could experience these things one more time. That’s the hardest part about all of this: wanting to have coffee at his house one more time, wanting to see one more Mets game, wanting to hear one more bit of porn film between songs, wanting to say once more that I’m grateful for everything and knowing that I can’t.
I think healing is accepting that I had all of the time I really needed but I just haven’t make it there yet.