I wish I had started sooner. The presence of borrowed time dropped its weight against my chest. I’m suffocating. It’s etching the overwhelming reality of grief and sorrow into my family and I’m lost, lost in a yearlong funeral.
I wanted to understand them, my fathers, my mother and brother–our relationship to each other. I wanted to reclaim the feeling of swamp-cooled air and the strength in their faces like in memories that begin to disappear just like the dust on the wall where pictures hung before.
I am fueled by these memories, but his presence is no longer expected, it’s magic. It’s something that can’t be understood, planned or formulated. He’s waiting for me, now. I won’t be ready for quite sometime, but I know he’s there. I look for him in rooms where he once inhabited and seek him outside of these purple painted walls. I find him in the faces of men I don’t know. They might even have his laugh. I catch a whiff of his after-shave and for only a moment, he’s standing right behind me.
I wish I had started sooner. Not for collecting dust on a shelf or the telling of what we lost, but I wish I started sooner to remember what we had. Remember what it felt like to take care of one who once took care of me, remember the endless collection of graphic t-shirts, remember the ignorance that proved to be a dream and that if I ever felt lost, to find myself again.