I took notes as he was dying. I thought I would one day want to sort through the snarl of memories from that week. The notes say things like “Mom makes the coffee so black” “Half-drunk La Croix cans everywhere” and “Benjamin Button”. I read them now and they don’t make sense. I know the meaning of the words, yes. But why I thought I would ever want to remember those days is strange to say the least. I am haunted by the details; the memories as a whole feel like a sick nightmare. I can picture something as small as the way the back of his hair stood up, mussed from pillows, and all of a sudden I am gone gone gone. I have only enough perspective to say this has changed me, irrevocably.
One of my notes said “plant myself in the soil of grief.” I don’t yet know what that means but I will. I am. This is where I will be.
