I’m up late after a longggg day at work.
I’m so freaking tired and NOW grief has decided to pay a visit. It peers in through the windows of my heart and knocks insistently at the door, but I can’t let it in. I won’t.
Sometimes I cry. But those tears aren’t letting out the huge grief I carry around like a weighted backpack. No. I haven’t let the REAL grief in yet.
Sometimes I question and rage at God. But still, the door remains closed to grief.
“Hello?” Grief calls out “Let me in?”
But I just put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear it any more.
I just work. Or paint. Journal or blog. Sweep the floors or wash and dry Alun’s favourite clothes and Nursing scrubs.
Anything to keep the thought that my Dad is gone at a safe distance.
I’ve lost my Dad, that’s all it is.
In my mind, my Dad’s literally lost, wandering around in a shopping mall in Cebu, politely asking people if they’ve seen his wife and giggling as he puts mannequins into awkward positions while he waits for someone to show him the way home.