I am fighting the urge to sleep. Days pass as they are apt to do, and little do I notice. I am finding it hard to write, words escape me, remaining elusive in the clutter of days. Three women talked in the living room (as dad slept) of babies, life, loss, and miscarries.
I wish I to had been asleep as well.
I sat ten feet and a wall away, involved in a conversation I was not part of... And yet knew all to well. Even now I don't know what to make of it all.... I would have gone out, left the house and gone to the field... But for fear of creating a void in my wake, letting a cold draft in as I went out the door. Now my father is awake, Brigid and mom carry the conversation, dad's voice is nearly gone these last days, as if he is speaking from another room far away. I can only imagine.
It is a distance between there....
(the place where he has gone)
And here....
(the place where we remain)
That hardly can I fathom.....
Soon he will pass beyond out sight.
1 comment:
The voices of our fathers echo in my ears. Tinny, like through an old Victrola or an 8-track that has seen much better days. Sometimes eavesdropping does more damage to listener than the imposed upon party. I remember your words to me after my son died and I want to tell you again how helpful your perspective and empathy have been my brother. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with us and know that we (the world) are better for your willingness to publicly audit your soul.
Post a Comment