Some things are just too painful to think about let alone write about. I woke last night thinking about my friend whose father just died from the nasty virus that’s going around. A life cut off too soon. Then of course, I stayed awake thinking of my own father who died when he was 63 and I was 27. My friend didn’t get to say goodbye to her father, neither did I.
That pain just never goes away. I’d like to tell her that it does, but it stays there in the background and seeps into our being. Unless you put the pain in a closet and never open the door. I didn’t expect that door to open last night, in the darkness. I didn’t even have a book to read to get me out of the incessant thinking about how it was those so many years ago and how I had wish it had been.
I wish I had a photograph to post of my father. He was quite a handsome fellow. But all my photos of him, the few that I have, are somewhere in my daughter’s garage and who knows when I’ll see them next.
The best I can post is a photo of my brother and I at Christmas when we were young and my father and mother were still married.
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