(Cont.) but it was already involved. My Conscience was dragged into the mess of my mind. My brain rattled on how Dad would feel if I had forgotten him, and how I was what he had left. It was myself, Mom and my brother, the only ones able to keep him moving on this planet while he was in heaven.
I dismissed my conscience and returned to my paper. I hadn't forgotten my dear daddy. I missed him, that I could not ignore. But at the same time, wallowing in it just wasn't what he would want me to do. It was my job to carry on, to take the torch for myself and start lighting up the darkness in my own life. Yes, the fire had been his, but it was now my turn to ensure that the fire burned.
My brain sat back. I turned back to my paper, the one due the next day. With Dad in the back of my thoughts instead of the front, I hacked away at the pages I loathed to do. Further up and further in, he had always said.
I don't think I'll ever really 'get over' loosing my Dad, but I don't think death is something to 'get over', anyway. Loosing a person is loosing a limb. You don't just get over having your leg blown off. It will always affect you, but you learn to live despite it. You learn to use a wheel chair, or find a way to tote on the leg you have left.
In that sense, I will always hobble. There will always be that moment when I look over my shoulder and bite back a tear or two. I will always remember how he ordered his coffee, and most of the advice that he instilled in me. He was my daddy, after all.
They say "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I beg to differ, because a man with two legs has a stronger stride than the man with one. However, I do sincerely believe that every scar holds a story, and each scar is worth telling for the strengthening of others. We learn a a whole, not as one. In loosing Dad, I can help others learn about the fathers they still have.
I dismissed my conscience and returned to my paper. I hadn't forgotten my dear daddy. I missed him, that I could not ignore. But at the same time, wallowing in it just wasn't what he would want me to do. It was my job to carry on, to take the torch for myself and start lighting up the darkness in my own life. Yes, the fire had been his, but it was now my turn to ensure that the fire burned.
My brain sat back. I turned back to my paper, the one due the next day. With Dad in the back of my thoughts instead of the front, I hacked away at the pages I loathed to do. Further up and further in, he had always said.
I don't think I'll ever really 'get over' loosing my Dad, but I don't think death is something to 'get over', anyway. Loosing a person is loosing a limb. You don't just get over having your leg blown off. It will always affect you, but you learn to live despite it. You learn to use a wheel chair, or find a way to tote on the leg you have left.
In that sense, I will always hobble. There will always be that moment when I look over my shoulder and bite back a tear or two. I will always remember how he ordered his coffee, and most of the advice that he instilled in me. He was my daddy, after all.
They say "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I beg to differ, because a man with two legs has a stronger stride than the man with one. However, I do sincerely believe that every scar holds a story, and each scar is worth telling for the strengthening of others. We learn a a whole, not as one. In loosing Dad, I can help others learn about the fathers they still have.
