The day my father died

The day my father died was an unseasonably warm day where I lived.

The sun was shining for the first time in what felt like months.

We had stayed out late the night before, so we lingered in bed, and the cats enjoyed the sunbeams. We did our normal morning things - made love and I cooked pancakes and eggs.

We were watching a random episode of Bob’s Burgers and digesting as I reached over for the phone to mindlessly play with it, putting off the moment I would have to start my homework.

The day my father died was notable for others. The Chiefs were playing in their first Super Bowl since my father was a young man. Though I think almost thirty years of living in northern West Virginia made him more of a Steelers fan than the team of his youth in the northwest Missouri. 

The groundhog was to make an appearance, but the groundhogs are many and I still haven’t seen their answers. The date was funny, a palindrome of note.

None of that matters because I picked up the phone and I saw my sister was calling. I love her but we don’t chat on the phone. Not a good sign. She asked if I was in a good place to hear bad news, a thoughtful touch we learn in sales training applied to a different sort of phone call.

The day my father died was today, and I’m still not sure what to do. I cried. I cleaned some dishes. I took a walk. Just last night in the shower I was thinking of how little time there is left, for all of us. I lamented that I wasn’t closer to him but wasn’t sure how to start a conversation - he is very taciturn. Was, was very taciturn. Now more so. 

The good thing religion does is give us community, I thought. But then I realized today that it gives us ritual, a guidance on steps to take to mourn when we want to reach out but there’s nothing to grasp.