Thank you very much.
Thank you very much.
(Note: , I'm aware I'm a day late with a story, but I wanted to see if I could do another idea besides this one. Obviously, I couldn't manage.)
I've been fortunate to not encounter much death in my life, but that fortune has left me a bit confused.
The day I was told my father died, I initially thought it was a joke. I figured it had to be because I saw my father earlier that morning. The shaking in my mother's voice as she continued explaining suggested otherwise. My chest became heavy and I burst into tears. Thoughts bounced around in my head about how it was possible he could die. He never seemed like the type. I remember dreaming that night that he didn't actually die; he was on a spy mission and faking his death was a part of it. As an apology my father hugged everyone. I've never felt so reassured in my life. I did not wake up pleased.
My father's wake was also a strange experience. I had never seen a dead human in-person before. It seemed much more like he was asleep than anything. I kept expecting him to wake up. He didn't. I moved closer and pretended to be whispering something mournful to him so I could see if he was breathing. He was not.
Naturally, I received phone calls from relatives and family friends about how I'd "be okay" and needed to "be strong." I received sympathy cards from classmates with whom I barely conversed. I didn't take a day off or mention that my father had passed, but teachers were already notified and I appreciated their sympathy and saying I could speak to them. Though I did not.
I knew enough to know there were things I couldn't say. I couldn't say I expected him to stop being dead and come back. I couldn't ask what people honestly felt about my dad before he died. I couldn't tell them I wouldn't judge them for what they might say.
My best friend questioned why I didn't take off from school. It felt like a knife. I told him my father "wouldn't have wanted that". My father begrudgingly celebrated holidays, despised celebrating his own birthday, and hated crying, so I was technically honest. Though one could say I lied. Perhaps if I were more vulnerable I would've said "I don't what else I'd do besides pretend things are normal" or maybe "That's a disgusting question and I'll grieve as I like." Though I love my friend enough not to hold that callous question against him.
I don't think about my father very often. When talking about the past, I prefer to leave him out. It's easier that way because I don't have to explain to anyone that he's dead now.
Though I still wonder if I at least said good bye before I went to school.
(Note: @Theodore_Kent, I'm aware I'm a day late with a story, but I wanted to see if I could do another idea besides this one. Obviously, I couldn't manage.)
I've been fortunate to not encounter much death in my life, but that fortune has left me a bit confused.
The day I was told my father died, I initially thought it was a joke. I figured it had to be because I saw my father earlier that morning. The shaking in my mother's voice as she continued explaining suggested otherwise. My chest became heavy and I burst into tears. Thoughts bounced around in my head about how it was possible he could die. He never seemed like the type. I remember dreaming that night that he didn't actually die; he was on a spy mission and faking his death was a part of it. As an apology my father hugged everyone. I've never felt so reassured in my life. I did not wake up pleased.
My father's wake was also a strange experience. I had never seen a dead human in-person before. It seemed much more like he was asleep than anything. I kept expecting him to wake up. He didn't. I moved closer and pretended to be whispering something mournful to him so I could see if he was breathing. He was not.
Naturally, I received phone calls from relatives and family friends about how I'd "be okay" and needed to "be strong." I received sympathy cards from classmates with whom I barely conversed. I didn't take a day off or mention that my father had passed, but teachers were already notified and I appreciated their sympathy and saying I could speak to them. Though I did not.
I knew enough to know there were things I couldn't say. I couldn't say I expected him to stop being dead and come back. I couldn't ask what people honestly felt about my dad before he died. I couldn't tell them I wouldn't judge them for what they might say.
My best friend questioned why I didn't take off from school. It felt like a knife. I told him my father "wouldn't have wanted that". My father begrudgingly celebrated holidays, despised celebrating his own birthday, and hated crying, so I was technically honest. Though one could say I lied. Perhaps if I were more vulnerable I would've said "I don't what else I'd do besides pretend things are normal" or maybe "That's a disgusting question and I'll grieve as I like." Though I love my friend enough not to hold that callous question against him.
I don't think about my father very often. When talking about the past, I prefer to leave him out. It's easier that way because I don't have to explain to anyone that he's dead now.
Though I still wonder if I at least said good bye before I went to school.
(post is archived)