Let’s talk about grief for a moment, that fucked up multicolored monster, the brontosaurus in the room that you are supposed to just get past and get over on those days he doesn’t bite you with his thousands of odd-shaped teeth.
Plant eater, my ass.
I made it through October, and all the bittersweet and sad memories that holds. I made it through November with your god-damned Thanksgiving and succulent turkey. I made it through December, in spite of sweet pine-fragranced memories of sitting on his lap and protesting at his tickley mustache.
I didn’t expect January to kick me in the ass.
No, I haven’t signed the paper. No, I haven’t cashed the check.
You want to know why? If there’s some problem?
His name is written there. In big bold letters beside it, it says DECEASED. I can’t bring myself to sign my name beside that. It would be like acknowledging that it’s true, that I believe it, that I’m okay with that.
And today, I am not.
Let me have a good cry, then a strong cup of coffee. Then I’ll sign your damn papers and slide them gently into an envelope, tender them carefully to the postman, pat them lovingly one more time, and remind myself that shitty papers and their lawyers don’t determine life and death.
You are alive in my heart. I see you every time I look in the mirror, in photographs of myself, in the way my children do or say a certain thing.
And I’ll have to make due with that.