But how do you get away from the memories?
That’s what she’s left with.
The missing words to a prayer she can’t recite.
Trying to find all that’s lost.
– Mark V. Krajnak, from JerseyStyle Photography’s Friday Noir
The day before I turned 33, I delivered a eulogy for my father, as his body awaited the cremating furnace.
Two days before, four women stood together as the heart that loved us all beat its last, and the disease that waged the rapid, terrible battle for his life, claimed its prize.
The hiss and click of a respirator pump, chime of a low-dose IV warning, ding of an elevator in a cavernous waiting room, the flat beep of a hospital monitor. A heavy teardrop, burning with life, staining the spotless fabric of a blanket meant to keep the worst of the sterile hospital cold at bay.
My mother’s farewell to the man who had spent well over thirty years by her side, whom she should have had many more years with: “Goodbye, my love.”
His three daughters bidding goodbye to the first man they had loved, in the time-honoured way of so many children to their fathers: “Bye Daddy. Love you.”
My father died a month ago today. Time flew, in its interminably slow fashion.
Wish you were here Daddy. We miss you so much.