“I thought of my [father]. Thought of how in the last days of [his] life so many horrible things had happened. Small, horrible things. My [father’s] whimsical, delirious babblings. The way [he] begged for something that wasn’t even mercy. For whatever it is that is less than mercy; for what we don’t even have a word for. Those were the worst days, I believed at the time, and yet the moment [he] died I’d have given anything to have them back. One small, horrible, glorious day after the other.”
– Wild, Cheryl Strayed
This excerpt from the book I’m reading popped out to me like neon letters on a bright white page. So true and so accurate. So painful and so honest. So real and to the core. It’s seven months today.. seven long, short, time consuming months since I sat next to my dad as he took his last breath. And while that was the worst and most traumatic time of my life, I’d do anything to bring it back. To bring him back. To say that I miss him is just barely scratching the surface, because it’s more than that. It’s so much more than that.
But since I’m not quite sure how else to articulate it, that will have to do.