There’s nothing literary about how I’m feeling today. No pithy or profound essay nugget to ring from this pain. Tomorrow marks 19 years since my father died, and frankly, I just want to cry. Not the usual–think about him for a moment, feel myself choke up and tear up and then press my eyes to keep the tears at bay because I don’t want to upset the patrons at Wegmans. I don’t want to upset my kids. I don’t want to let this rotten emotion overwhelm me.
Today I want to sob until I can’t breathe right and my head rings. I want to wallow in it. Because it sucks and it hurts that he’s gone and I hate that I don’t have a truly satisfying answer for “where” or “what” he is, that I have this huge father-shaped hole in my life that is absolutely unfillable, and because he’s been gone so long now that I don’t even know who I’m mourning anymore.
I’m cooking tomorrow as I always do. But this is the first year in long time that I considered giving myself permission to skip it. I’m exhausted just thinking about it at the moment. But the food is bought, the recipes are chosen and the friends invited. Maybe it will help. Maybe I’ll feel okay in the morning.
Maybe I will.