Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I am awake. I am exhausted. I am overwhelmed.
Tonight, I am awake. I am exhausted. I am overworked - but I am in control.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, for the first time in my life, I am not ashamed to let people see me cry.
Tonight, I realise that it has been some days since I cried, but that I will probably do some crying later when I think about how I didn't see him in hospital while his eyes were still open.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I am heating a soothing mix of half water, half milk, with honey, crushed cinnamon and cardamom, and a pinch of turmeric, for a bedtime drink that I will make for my mother every night for a month.
Tonight, I make healthy tuna salad sandwiches in pita bread with fresh lettuce and olives, finely chopped coriander and mint, yoghurt, mustard and a big dollop of not-so-healthy ranch dressing, and my mother and I sit at the little breakfast table that was the first thing she bought as a bride, and eat dinner together.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I sit down next to my father and talk to him softly so that the others in the room can't hear me.
Tonight, I know that he is sleeping and that perhaps he can't hear me. I will talk to him anyway, as loud as I like.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, the child within me tells my father that he reminds her of Snow White, and that it's a good thing his paunch isn't any bigger or it would touch the top of the glass.
Tonight, I remember that, and can smile.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends are arriving, and phones are ringing, and I repeat the words over and over.
Tonight, I know that all these cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends will remember me in the morning, and though I am an agoraphobic who always dreads the phone ringing, I will pick up if one of them calls.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, my father is dead, but not yet buried.
Tonight, I know that though my father is buried, he will never be dead to me.
3 comments:
Nazu, I feel that all the time. He will always be there - in memories, thoughts, moments, feelings and life.
The sadness results from our love.
That's so true, Jon .. whenever sadness overwhelms me, I remind myself that it's the price we pay for loving someone, and it's worth it.
Post a Comment