Going to a funeral today. The father of one my girlfriends. Her father went in for some outpatient procedure last Tuesday, was released on Wednesday, collapsed in his bathroom on Thursday. I've only met Lori's father once or twice, but have been friends with her for more than a decade. We descended on her this past weekend with rum (her fave) and plenty of tissue. We didn't need the tissue, surprisingly.
So, I'm not ready for today. I haven't seen her unraveled, but I know she's going to be a mess and I won't be able to help. Add to that, i can't help but think about my own parents. I'm blessed to still have them (and to actually like them a lot); I can't fathom -literally canNOT compute- the concept of either of them not being here.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ashes and dust and mortals and all that. I'm just not ready.
There's been a story or a poem about my parents scratching underneath my skin for a while. I'm just not sure how to approach it, how to wrestle everything into a theme, or one topic, or a particular form. Essentially, my mother taught me that I'm capable of absolutely anything and my father taught me how to implement and analyze everything. A pretty good combination, I'd say. As people, my parents are brilliant, good-humored, good-natured, and very much in control of the ghosts that haunt them. A pretty decent matching set, I'd say.
So, I'm not ready for today, on many levels. After today, though, I hope these poems/essays/stories will break my surface and find their way onto the page. Ashes. Dust. Mortals.