A Dadless month. I don’t know if that is even a word.
I don’t
know whether writing this post will make me feel any better.
But I am going to
write anyway.
I have imagined my Dad’s presence many times in the month
that passed but more than that I have always very acutely felt the sting of his
absence.
He was not in a very good shape for the last two years but then he was
there. And the eternal hopefulness of human mind has no limits.
The medical melodramas on the
television may convince us that a loved one can be saved at the last minute by
some rare miracle or dumb luck. But it seems that this is never the case.
I wish I believed in some form of afterlife, but I really
don't. I sincerely crave the relief so many people get from trusting that we'll
all be together again somewhere, somehow. I'm just not wired for that kind of
faith.
Most of the time, my dad's absence is a painful fact I
simply live with. I know he's gone, but I am trying to move through each day,
living up to my responsibilities at home and the workplace. The daily routine
keeps me sane, it really does. Human
brain is clever that way.
My dad is gone. He will always be gone. I will always feel
the grief. But I hope I won’t lose the optimism and zest of life. Dad wouldn't
want me to.
