I wrote the following in a notebook the day I found out my father died, 7 days ago, on November 7th, 2018.
My dad passed away in the night and I find myself sitting under a weeping willow, writing, watching people texting, taking pictures, laughing – and it’s wondrous how some life goes on, others slow down and sometimes it just stops.
I see hundreds of busy ants collecting their days haul and I’m worried I sat on some. There’s a very tall man in a pale pink shirt speaking German and I’m reminded of my trip to Berlin during the 2010 World Cup when they lost to Spain in a crushing blow.
I remember how he called me sweetie.
My dad never really traveled outside of the U.S. I only recall him going to Mexico with my mom once on a vacation a few years ago. He complained the whole time, but when they got home he couldn’t stop talking about how amazing it was. That was typical dad though. He couldn’t be bothered or disturbed from his routine. Even if he ended up loving it. One of his favorite shirts was salmon-colored. Too pink for a brawny man like him, but I liked the way it brought out the blush in his cheeks.
I want to talk, but then I don’t, I want to scream, but I’m a child without a voice. I want to cry, but I realize I’m too tired, and I’m already crying.
Weeping willows have always been my favorite trees. I’ve known their sadness so much in my life, but not like today. To be sheltered under their shadows of draping limbs feels so comforting and serendipitous. All the trees are weeping today.
The high-noon sun is beating down so heavily and even though it feels good to have my skin warmed, I am aching. There’s a girl with purple hair and bangs eating a bag of chips saying “I love shit like this,” pointing at The Temple of Love statue in the garden. The stone is brilliant and the pillars are standing tall beside her, the same way my dad used to stand next to me. I love shit like this too.
Today is pregnant with color, but I am unfeeling and all feeling. My husband carelessly blows an ant off his arm as I am allowing them to take dominion over me. I have become one with the colony. I am their property now because I am no longer within myself.
The pain is
Purpose and Prose 