when i think about that year my parents passed, a few short months apart from each other, it's often like this. memories of memories. what's real, what's fake? when my father passed it was a friday. a sunny friday. my mother's death was a surprise, but not his. i didn't cry – not on that day, not until years later. the sun was out, it was a beautiful day, we knew this was coming so why would i cry? i had no appetite and couldn't look at his body but i laughed along to jokes and played my favourite song in the car on the ride back home and we knew this was coming, so why would i cry? grief is a funny thing, isn't it...
when i think about that year my parents passed, a few short months apart from each other, it's often like this. memories of memories. what's real, what's fake? when my father passed it was a friday. a sunny friday. my mother's death was a surprise, but not his. i didn't cry – not on that day, not until years later. the sun was out, it was a beautiful day, we knew this was coming so why would i cry? i had no appetite and couldn't look at his body but i laughed along to jokes and played my favourite song in the car on the ride back home and we knew this was coming, so why would i cry? grief is a funny thing, isn't it...
