Forcing The Pen To Write

My dad passed away on Monday morning.

Seeing as it's now 3am on Thursday, you can imagine this week has been full of decisions which were much more difficult than they should have been and ridiculous questions. Trust me, the font on a thank you card should not take 20 minutes to decide on, and no one should ever ask a newly grieving widow or child (regardless of age) how they're doing. (Oh, I'm doing fine. I only woke up sobbing three times last night, and finding his hat in the laundry this afternoon only left me curled up on the floor in a numb stupor for an hour.  I'm doing splendidly. Thank you so much for reminding me that this wound is not -in fact- visible to every person I meet.)

Still, this week has made an opportunity for a million different conversations I doubt my family, friends and I would have ever had other wise. There is a certain amount of blunt honesty that comes along with the pain. That's almost refreshing.  

This week has also brought a good deal of laughter as we reminisce. Anyone who knew my father would know, that's the way he'd want it to be. So for now, I'm in the practice of forcing myself to continue to move, to write when I feel like crying, and to laugh when I feel like dying. Because, ultimately, that's what Dad would do, and that's all that I can do.