by Nixie 🐱
2015 Father's day alone with Mom contemplating . .
|I'm here, Dad, sitting at your desk. Mom walked past a few moments ago, and I startled her, but she didn't seem upset. My main motivation in using your office was to keep my personal stuff out of the way. The deeper motive is my determination to absorb your energy and not be destroyed in the process. |
My brain is faulty. I've always suspected you passed along your genes. I apologize for the jinxed-up brain processing, but I'm exhausted and not comfortable being away from home. Mom, and your son, Lee, dropped me off while they went to buy groceries, which was a good idea because the second the door closed, the tears rushed forth, and the hysteria began to climb. That's when I decided you'd sent some of your energy into me.
What am I trying to accomplish by writing this? Tomorrow is Father's Day, but that's merely a date on a calendar. Today the pain defeats, perhaps tomorrow will bring relief.
This room is freezing during the night. It's so cold, I'm kept awake, shivering and pulling extra blankets around me. I've never believed that a chill precedes a paranormal event. Part of my brain still reasons. The air-conditioning vent is nearly above the air mattress where I sleep now that you're gone. That's the explanation.
And really, you shouldn't have left us. I'm angry with you. I'm angry with myself. It's not part of the grieving process. No one can measure something like that. There's days I don't even care that you're dead. I've said it. The D-word. I cling to euphemisms, like passed away, or gone from this life. Not caring sounds cruel. Maybe there's days where I'm able to forget.
But sitting in your office is a defiant act. I'm celebrating death with grim determination and the glorious wing-spread of a white peacock. (It's the cover art for this piece.)
Father's Day is for Hallmark, not me or you. Lee and I bought Mom some glazed donuts for Father's Day. Last night we ate at Toojays, which made me sick to my stomach. They put corn in my black bean burger. Do you have any paranormal abilities to give the chef hell for upsetting your daughter?
Tonight, we're dining at Sal's, your favorite Italian restaurant. I like their garlic rolls, but their food? Not so much. The amount of angel hair pasta heaped on my dinner plate is obscene. I can never finish it, and I can never leave it there. For tonight, I'm hoping they have Minestrone soup, and then I can just order a salad. Between the rolls, the salad and the soup, I should be fine.
Tomorrow, we're breakfasting over by where you and Mom used to live, about 45 minutes south of here. Mom says the same family still owns the Olympia Diner. Fascinating in a world where nothing stays the same for very long. Last I was there--ten years ago?--I wasn't a Vegan. Please let there be something on the menu for me.
I'm trying very hard to be okay here, Dad. Without you on this second Father's Day since your passing. I'm trying, but failing. I'm not sure how long I can stay. Mom needs transportation for a doctor's appointment on Monday. It's kind of confusing. She's already made arrangements, but they're not ideal. Lee says he wants to be part of her life, and that's why we''re here. Meaning, he wants to stay so he can drive her. I want the same. But I won't risk my mental health, which is, at its best, precarious.
After knocking back a pill, I drifted off by imagining the many ways I could 'accidentally' die so as not to burden anyone with an act of selfishness on my part. It would still be traumatic for everyone, but I wouldn't be here to care. Relief surges through me, contemplating an end.
The last time I saw you, somehow you managed to convey the words "I'm done" from behind your oxygen mask. I accepted it then. That's what you wanted. Well, guess what? I haven't earned it, but I want to die and just be gone. Please don't be reading over my shoulder, Dad, while I sit here at your desk contemplating my death.
submitted September 2015 to "15 Finger Frenzy!"