he spent the last days, weeks, months of his life alone in his room, looking at and saving recipes he’d never make. his back was broken, but usable – not fixable, but upright. he was in constant pain. the coughing was almost overwhelming for him – and us – toward the end. he couldn’t breathe or walk or enjoy anything in his life anymore.
he wanted to kill himself. i only learned that for sure, after.
sometimes i get so angry i feel heat physically rising from my belly to my cheeks and i want to punch a hole through a wall, swing a bat into something breakable, smash the world and its to everything turn, turn, turn …
he should be here. at the very least, he should have been able to make a f*cking pie at the end without sitting on a stool for four hours, unable to enjoy the spoils of his arduous labor.
the more i sit on my pain, the more i feel its needlessness. he’s gone. there is no after, no second chance. no way to tell him how much i miss him. well-meaning loved ones tell me he’s simply “in another room” and that i can think of him and talk to him and pretend he’s simply … away.
he is not simply away. he is dead. and with him, so much of me is, too. i am no longer a daughter. i am just me. and that is not enough. don’t placate me with how love transcends. it only does for the living.
and so does the pain.