metrocake

The problem with writing about the dead is that they’ve stopped. Self-evident, I know… When I write about my father here, as I’ve written for seven years now, I find myself saying the same things — maybe with a little more perspective, but the same things. I’m not going to suddenly have new memories of my Dad — if anything, the ones I’ve got will get hazier and hazier as time goes by. It happens.

I’m thinking on this today because I went back and looked at my archives — didn’t want to repeat myself — and found, indeed, that I would be. Maybe what I’ll have to say in fifteen years will be quite different; maybe I’ll write from the perspective of a parent, or someone who would be her father’s age when he died. That would give me more in common with my father than my life right now, and might give me something different to say.

I went out to the cemetery to remember him yesterday — it was seven years ago yesterday when I last saw him alive. Not the best of days. My mother called late last night; she was unhappy that I took the bus out on my own. It upset her. I don’t think she understands that I’d rather it be that way — I need to go on my own. My mother’s perspective is very, very different — for her, Dad just died yesterday. Still. (She is on anti-depressants; she was in therapy but has not seen her therapist for a year…despite the family asking her to.)

Lots to think about today.