"But I will hold on hope"

My words dried up when dad died.

The farther away from him I've gotten away from him, the less people want to hear about him. About how I feel. I have been mostly silent. But it creeps up on me when I least expect it, baking 10 different kinds of Christmas cookies one night, and suddenly being seized with such overwhelming, cavernous sadness. Remembering Dad reading Capote's 'A Christmas Memory', and needing to find that book, his copy, immediately. Or welling up with tears at the thought of getting rid of a table that belonged to Dad and his family. Someone said to me recently that this holiday must be easier than last year. It's actually been harder. I have passed through the phase of shock and awe, and reality has sunk in. And truthfully, I can't see this ever being easier. I'll always see that empty place at the table.

I went for a walk tonight, for the first time in a very long time. I had forgotten the quiet meditative trance I get into, the lulling drone of the traffic and the gentle clicking of Ed's law's on the pavement. That was always the time for me to think, back when dad was sick. I would mull over things, then come here and blurt them all out. I kept nothing in during that time. Now, I keep everything in. I have tried, in the last year, to throw myself into being busy: into being super mom, PTA, play dates and activities. I have slipped in and out of a persona that feels so unlike me. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I was stronger than the grief. That I could rise above it and be stoic. But it's really not that simple. Nothing ever is. But as ever, I still have hope.

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again