Eleven
years.
I remember
waking up on the day of your destined departure and thinking, ‘my dad is going
to die today.’ It’s one of those things in life that is deemed so
inconceivable, its consequences are only received in its arduous aftermath. Its
unwavering persistence never falters, and its impact brands the rest of our existence
with habitual heartbreak.
The days
preceding your anniversary and my self-proclaimed ‘Annual Day of Dread,’ are
nothing more than an unwanted invitation to resurrect repressed resentment. You
were around for the good, but I surely never imagined you’d be absent from the
best. I know you’d do anything to disencumber my mind from its boundless
bereavement. Instead, I resort to finding solace in your relentless efforts in making
yourself known during my darkest and most challenging of times. After all, sequences
of intuitive innuendos have displeasingly become our new black.
In lieu of
countless internal dialogues justifying the need to visit your grave, I have
yet to muster the courage to do so. Guilt, obligation and desire all take a backseat
to the mere fact that I can’t come face-to-face with your headstone for reasons
stemming from nothing short of the fact that you just don’t belong there. It has
taken me a long time to remotely come close to terms with your absence, I need
not be reminded of the true permanence of your demise.
Death is a such
a mind-fucking conundrum, and grief is its unsolicited ally. Despite being
an inevitable outcome, it is the only standing certainty of our existence that
elicits permanence in its truest form. I mourn your loss every single day of my
life, and I selfishly miss your physical presence. Today, I grieve a life
without you in it.
I’ll see you
in my dreams,
jax
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