One week now, and although I've been living in task mode (as opposed to sitting in a heap like a hopeless blob), I haven't written at all since the day my father died, last Wednesday. Maybe it's just that my sister and the kids and I have been together and talking so much that it hasn't felt necessary to write. I don't know.
It's so odd to just go on with the ordinary doings of life, but of course, that's what's done, and it's all that can and should be done. It's not that I feel a betrayal of him (as in "Oh, I'm not thinking of him every minute!"), because I can almost hear him grunting "Don't be foolish!", and after all, I am thinking of him all the time. But not in such a sad way. He was ready to go, had discharged all the responsibilities of his life like the good little boy he was, and he was ready to go.
We asked him a few months ago just what he wanted "done" when the time came. He had already made the cremation request, and very clearly, so that wasn't the issue. What should we do with the remains. "Throw them out with the trash," he said. He was a funny guy.
We didn't do that, of course, but it does help to remember how he was. For now, we're looking for papers and making phone calls. Tomorrow we'll start on the dressers and cabinets.
I'd just been thinking recently, wondering how long it would take me to process my mother's death last May. I was approaching a peaceful place on that one. Oh, well.
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