Has come again And this time, I sleep at night I remember to eat and manage to pry myself out of bed with less effort than a year ago I do not like to be cold, But that has always been true. This February I feel almost full. More me than I have in so long. 15 months approximately. My blanket is so much lighter, I move so easily. I laugh. I still cry. But I keep going. Maybe February doesn’t have to feel like February
What He Doesn't Know
I wake up in his bed Nestled inside him, His arm flung over my waist, His hand barely brushing my breast. And I feel content. Because this boy does not know grief. So he does not know that we are friends.
He does not know hat I avoid sleep For fear of waking up to remember all over again. He does not know that I look for my Dad in every gold minivan I see. He dos not know the vast multitude of sayings, songs, restaurants, buildings, that trigger the nostalgia and a downpour of tears.
He does not know these things. In fact,he may know nothing at all. But it's okay. Because what he doesn't know Didn't kill my father.
Is Your Dad Still Teaching?
"Is your Dad still teaching?" She asks, not knowing. And I wonder Where the hell have you been for seven months? But how lovely that you got to live in a luxury of a world where my father was still standing. Her question lingers in the middle of the potato chip aisle, I finally reply "My Dad passed away in November." And answer I now feel gives the wrong impression. Because I think he is teaching me, just as much as ever.
Proof
"I'll need to see some documentation" She says to me. And I wonder What she would classify as proof that my father has in fact died. Does she need a death certificate? Will the fact that his chemistry major daughter now writes poems suffice? What about a photo of his memorial service? A letter from the distraught widow? An email from any one of the students whose exams he was half way through grading that Thursday evening? The basket of every sympathy card we received in the following weeks? What constitutes proof? For me the proof is in the moment I call to tell him important news and realize his phone number has been reassigned The proof is in the eyes of the young man who has unknowingly inherited my father's office The proof is in the tone of my mother's voice when she says "you sound just like your father" Or the wave of sympathy that crashes over people when they tell me I look just like him The memory of the all too perky nurse who guided me into a room to face the worst moment of my life The empty spot in his bed I often occupy, telling myself I don't want my mom to be lonely but knowing that it makes me remember the times I was young and sick and got to cuddle up next to him. I was only once asked to prove that my father had died. An email from my therapist was good enough.
Learning Patience
I have never been a patient person. But now, more than ever I am expected to have patience For the men who knew my father for two years and then collapsed into my arms for comfort For the women who "didn't know him, but can't even imagine" For my friends that are having a hard time with it For the professor who's best friend's 80 year old mother died, so she knows exactly what I'm going through For people to whom my Father was so kind, but are all but cruel to me when heis gone For people who ask how I am not wanting to hear the real answer For people who don't talk to me because they don't know what to say For people who had no business being there that night For everyone who wants to share their own eulogy For my brothers And my Mom But I have never been a patient person.
Looking For You
I don't know that I will ever stop looking for you, in every laboratory, at every wrestling event, whenever I walk in to your room whenever I see a gold Honda Odyssey even when I'm far from home especially when I'm far from home I will never stop looking for you despite the knowledge that you are no longer there. Instead, You are the voice in my head that says "Go get 'em girlfriend"as I walk into work every morning You are the feeling in my gut, that makes me reach for my wallet to buy the candy bar the child in front of me can't quite afford You are the patience in my voice when I talk to mom and the boys. I know where to find you. But I will continue to look, everywhere I can.
Tolerance for Pain
The funny thing is I remember being told How low my tolerance for pain was But I laugh at that now Because I am living through this I am still standing And I think How ridiculous That I was thought weak For crying at a splinter But how lovely That a splinter Was the worst thing in my life that day.