Shoulders: An Epitaph
It’s interesting how we use elusive words to describe death. We use adjectives that dance around the finality – “passed away”, “gone”, “not here”, “moved on” – as if avoiding the bluntness of it somehow makes it more bearable. It doesn’t. I received word last Friday that my father died. There are so many emotions and memories boiling on the stove right now and I can’t even process it because the pot’s too hot. My father is dead, and as much as I should accept the comfort being offered right now, it’s more like something I tolerate out of a sense of…something. Duty, maybe? Hell if I know. What I do know is this is a moment that makes me swallow hard. He’s gone (there’s that elusive verbiage again) and I feel a mixture of guilt, wishing that I’d spent more time, returned more calls, kept more promises. Knowing fully the shame of poor choices and taking the man for granted. Feeling anger at the know-it-all teenage me who was such an ass at times to this good and decent man. Stinging from ...