Feel Free to Skip This One. Nothing Fun Here.

To die is always a person's last verb. Death their last noun. Yesterday marked 2 years since my dad died. The first year is a blur. The second year brings it into focus. It's odd how the more time passes, the more permanent it seems to become. And just when you think you've accepted the absence, you run across some stupid country song on the radio that makes you cry and you can't bring yourself to change the station. You are driving with sensitive kids in the back seat. They ask what's wrong, and you lie. You blink and brace and breathe. No time, no freedom, no place to cry. You swallow it, suck it up, smile and sigh. Someone who doesn't know calls and asks, "How are you?" "Good. What's up?" you say.

As much as I hate to remember and wish I could forget bad anniversaries, I will always dread every April 27. And every time I chance upon a song that touches my ache, I'll always sob, at least on the inside. I made it through yesterday just fine because I was never alone. Today I am. Hence this delayed reaction and downer post. As I type, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic just started playing on the radio. Great. What timing. Thanks a lot, Daddy.

Don't y'all feel sorry for me? If only doubling-up on my antidepressant would help. A good cry is healthy especially when it's overdue. I promise to be back to "myself" next time. For now, back to work.