When my babies were born I counted their life in days, then weeks, months and now half years. Changes happen so often with little ones that it is necessary to use smaller measurements of time because one week is incomparable to one month; twelve months is nothing near what sixteen months is like.
Three and a half weeks ago they proclaimed my Dad dead. When will I stop counting the weeks, months and move into years? Perhaps when it doesn't hurt every moment. Right now the hurt doesn't seem to let up. I'm dragging myself through every day. I wake up with a strange idea that I can do it but within a few hours I'm mentally exhausted and not so sure anymore.
Dad, I hope time is flying by for you. I know things are wonderful for you where you are and that brings me a momentary sense of peace. But then just as quickly I remember that we won't be able to have that moment of reconciliation where we start new because I've finally been able to find a way to let go of the things I want to forget. I don't like holding onto them but for some reason they stick like glue to every inch of me even though I desperately want them to leave my mind so that I can only remember the times we laughed and enjoyed each other's company. I miss you. Please watch over my kids and enjoy watching them laugh and play. I know that is what you would want me to focus on right now and I'm trying. It's just so damn hard sometimes. Love, ste.