Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Grief is the ultimate liminal state.

It’s a gap in time that can’t sufficiently be bridged by the love of friends, family, or lovers. 

It is unique; it can’t be shared the way love can, and I wouldn’t wish to burden anyone else with it.

I can do my best to delay it, out of denial or necessity, with chores and work and school, but only my body is temporarily removed from the process. My mind is still busy, always so busy, trying to convince my heart of the simple and logical fact: my father is dead.

My mind often stumbles, as my bendy body does when it automatically calls his house;
no, he won't answer the phone when you call.
no, he won't help you out of this mess.
no, he won't make you laugh about this.
no, you won't feel awful when he says that.

As I'm working through these negative spaces in my mind, my heart has no chance of catching up. One day, I'll move on to the positive spaces (a terrible misnomer);
yes, he would've loved to hear about this couch controversy.
yes, he would've given anything to see you perform again.
yes, he would loved that you're writing again.

But, as I fall into the future conditional tense, I'm reminded that no, you don't have a future with him - not like that. and 
I hold my breath.
I choke.
I sob.
I forget how to breathe. 

And I realize that my body has to relearn how to function before my mind has a hope in hell of convincing my heart that everything will all be okay again, someday.


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