There's nothing rational about writing a note to your dad in Heaven on Facebook. I think it just shows what you're doing, which is trying to show everyone the hole in your insides so that they can...something.
Because what everyone's going to do is the only thing everyone can, and that is to tell me that hey, 77 years is a good long time. And Zoe wasn't supposed to be around too long.
These are both true statements. I'll even help with the true statements: Dad was so frail that I was afraid I'd break him when I hugged him, which was just strange. My favorite explanation of Dad's athleticism was when he assessed Andreas and me: we were better athletes. We played more sports well, had a wider muscle knowledge of lots of different things.
But, he said, he knew he could beat us in a race. Him in his prime, it wouldn't be close.
All bravado? I don't think so. I saw him run. And I also think he was being generous with his sports assessment. The point is, this was a guy who wasn't just good, he knew he was good and he was plainly unafraid-from a physical perspective-of anything.
So hugging him and feeling like I could snap his ribs wasn't right. I'll throw that in on our list of reasons it's grand Dad and Zoe are gone.. I'm of course not even mentioning how good he's got it now, and Zoe. How his heart only had to be broken for four days - four days from Zoe going home to his death.
I have no idea why I keep crying. Just all these jagged edges sticking out. Pride and pain. Missing. Dad and Zoe both had sweaty heads. So if my head sweats, I break down because I'm them and they are me and yet they are gone and I'm here and nothing is right.
Nothing would be better if they were here. I'd be sleeping less, owe a lot more. I'd be crying about their physical state.
But nothing is better now that they're gone. Not sure where to put it. Turns out the fist-sized hole in my wall was as cathartic as a Facebook post.
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