So it’s Sunday night.
My being aches because I don’t get to go to work tomorrow. I don’t get to commute through some of the more medium-rare neighborhoods of Baltimore with Meg tomorrow morning, pop into Wholefoods for a bagel and glare menacingly at the homeopathy aisle. I don’t get to say “good morning fellas” to Matt and John, log into my computer, skim the morning emails and then go get a cup of coffee to fuel the beginning of my work day. I don’t get to go to a weekly department meeting and talk about my projects and give feed back on others. I don’t get to IM jokes over to the next row. Not yet.
Tonight I’ll be playing Spore until my bloodshot eyes can’t stay open another minute, or reading until I pass out with a book in my hand, or keeping Meg awake watching 3 episodes of “How It’s Made” in a row. This is my new ritual which sends me into a feverish sleep full of not getting comfortable and having those half-dreams you have when your mind’s demanding that your body explain itself for wanting to lie there. My mind won’t let me sleep if it can be avoided, working itself overtime just trying to handle all of the emotions lashing out at each other.
This is a lot harder the second time around. I hate the fact that one or two of you know exactly how this feels, and thinking that the other people I care about will have to feel this one day. I can draw a few drops of solace thinking this will help me to help others make the transition into the parentless phase of life, as I was able to be there for some of you who’ve experienced the devastation for the first time, in the way only someone who’s been there can be.
I can’t call him every few days to talk about my career, or the marinade I used grilling steaks last night, or to tell him there’s a new picture I posted to Flickr I want him to see. I can’t listen to him list off the 5 new cars he’s decided would be perfect replacements for the Infiniti once his lease is up. We can’t laugh about the latest movies we’ve seen on DVD, and we still never got around to playing Grand Theft Auto 4 online together (yes, my dad owned a PS3). I don’t get to hear about the hot streak he hit playing craps at the Santa Fe Station, or get lectured about my finances. He’s really gone.
I’m not screaming that it’s not fair, and I don’t ask what I did to deserve this. I’d rather have the pain than just a void. The pain. There’s no shortage of that.
I know some of you are on my friend list and we don’t really know each other, and some of you could write my biography without having to ask me anything. Some of you just randomly show up and only know me for my writing and pictures. There’s a few of you who even though we’re out of each other’s lives forever, you check in from time to time to see what I’m up to, even if you’re just hoping to get a laugh from someone you used to know. I leave my profile and blog open because I welcome you all into my life.
So this is for everyone. This is about the loss of my dad. This is about the loss of one of my best friends in the world. This is about the loss of the man who knew me best. This is about the second and final time I lost a parent.
Fuck.