Scabs

There's a part of being a human that most people don't really like dealing with. It's the part at the end. The part where you cease being a human and become something else. Whatever that may be.

And then, and then, well, there's the part that we as the humans left get to deal with. The absence. The space. The hole. Literally and figuratively.

Call came in the other night. I knew what it was before I answered. Mostly because, who calls any more? Especially later in the evening.

My friend, my person, her voice breaking, telling me her dad had died. Suddenly. Her dad who I had known since 7th grade. Her dad who sent me a card when my dad died. The last time I saw him, he was laughing while drinking Two Buck Chuck over ice. That's the memory I plan on keeping.

With the news, all the memories come crashing in around me. Waves and a riptide, pulled out to sea, struggling to keep my head up. The late night calls. The hurried packing. My dad dying. Feeling it again.

The pain does begin to subside, the waves get easier to navigate although the date still has triggers. The scab has gotten smaller; the scar larger. And even though the scab has shrunk, it still hurts when it's pulled off. It still bleeds. Much less but still there. I vacillate on this. Is it good to feel better or is it terrible to feel better? Are we supposed to be miserable or celebrate the life that we have? I'm sure the ideal is somewhere in the middle.

Reaching the middle is easier on some days than others.