Abbie went on a half day leave yesterday because it was his mother’s death anniversary. While waiting for Jenn to finish in RCBC, we got to talking about his last days with his mom. Yesterday I found out he was the youngest amongst the siblings and that it was him who spent the most time with their mum. I also found out it was 22 years ago that his mother died. I don’t think I’ve ever had that serious a conversation with Abbie… He’s always been the one cracking the jokes, you know? But I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.
And in the middle of that conversation, I realized that it’s been 15 years since my dad died. Fifteen years. Literally half of my life. And, very, very surprisingly, it made me very, very sad. I had a complicated relationship with my father, you see. I think deep down inside I know I haven’t gotten over my father’s death – my father’s in particular because I was a little too young to be truly affected by my mother’s passing. My father’s death, however, broke me.
I still remember. Sometimes I still feel like I’m broken.
I don’t think it ever truly goes away – the pain, I mean. I think I’ll always have that hole in my heart that I mostly forget about, but when I remember, I remember everything. And it hurts so much when I remember.
There’s something I have to tell you, though. I loved my father more after he passed away. Sometimes I think what I love is my memory of him, not him per se. I loved the man I knew he could have been… The father I should have had. My father was a broken man and, in so many ways, I’ve turned out so much like him. I saw my father fall to pieces after mum died. They fought every single day, but he was just incapable of loving anyone else but her. When she died, I think a part of my dad died with her. It makes me wonder how many parts of me have died since my mum’s passing when I was five.
Abbie said he questioned God when his mother died. He asked why she had to be taken away so soon. I never had to ask God why my mother died the day before I turned six. I never asked why my father passed away when I was fifteen. When the aunt that I was living with was taken when I was seventeen, I didn’t ask that either. My question, you see, was different. I never asked why they were taken away. I always asked why I kept getting left behind.
I told you I was screwed up.
Another thing you have to know about me – and I will probably write about this more in another post because I have to go now and cook food – I am not my parents’ child, but, ironically, I am very, very much my father’s daughter.