My dad passed away unexpectedly on Dec. 18 at the young age of 62. I’m not sure where I’m at in the stages of grief, but it feels like something between numb and raw. Last night’s countdown was seven kinds of conflicted for me and it’s stupid, really, for a rational person. It’s a night, a time on the clock, just like any other night. An arbitrary division of time within an arbitrary division of time . Here’s the rub. 2013 is a rotten bitch because it’s now The Year My Dad Died. So good flipping riddance, right? But it’s also the year of my last memories with my dad. And 2014 is also a rotten bitch because it’s the first year of my life that there is no Dad.
Time and tide wait for no man, they say.
They also say a bunch of other stuff, some of which makes me feel better and some of which makes me feel angry.
Ok, breathe. Recover.
Time heals all wounds.
Another balm that I know to be incompletely true, but true enough.
So 2014, you arbitrary unit of time, it’s time to make you my rotten bitch. Tomorrow I’ll think positive. In ten arbitrary units of time I’ll think positive. Right now, in this moment that needs no definition or tag or title, I’ll just mourn.