No, not quite yet. It has been 9 days since we said good-bye. Nine days too many. I find myself uninterested in much of anything. Even food, and I’m a fat girl who likes to eat. I do eat, by the way, but nothing tastes good. Nothing even sounds good.
My step-mom said we just have to Fake It Till We Make it. I try, but it’s too damned hard. I know this isn’t what my father would want. He was so full of life and love. I know I should do better in his memory, but I cannot.
I’m not there yet.
I am, however, writing. Just a smidge. It’s hard. I love writing, but all the joy is gone from it.
Truth be told, the joy is gone from everything. I hope the pain recedes soon. We will bury his ashes next week. Maybe then I can forge ahead.
Until then, I write and pretend it is as joyful today as it was before getting the call. I also pretend it means anything.
All that aside, I do intend to get back to more regular writing. It’s just… I’m not there yet. I appreciate your understanding.
I do, however, have some words to share since it is, once again, #FirstLineFriday and #FiveLineFriday
Stratford Clarion noticed the air of uncertainty hanging over the men in the dining area of White’s the moment he stepped into the room. The already weak sun was obscured further by shuttered windows and hazy clouds of smoke, for which he was grateful. The stirrings of a hangover clawed at his temples, setting his mood to match that of the others present.
Winding his way through the smoke-filled room, he picked up bits of the conversation. No one would meet his eye, but that was nothing new.