22 years and I feel nothing. I didn’t even remember the exact date – but curiosity drove me to go on the internet to see if I could find it a week or so ago. I did. Wednesday, September 10th 1986. The day the relief came, the old fear ended and a new dread took it’s place. But this isn’t a story about the dread. It’s a story about the relief. But mostly, it’s a story about me.
Putting aside the thoughts I have of what “others might think” I just may be able to do a decent job in remembering this – and I should. Something that’s played such a pressing role in the making of “me” deserves to be heard.
So I’ll start over. Wednesday, September 10, 1986 my father died. He was 73 years old. He’d suffered a series of strokes which put him in the hospital. He never got out – and I never visited him. Continue reading “father’s daughter”