scattered thought raindrops

Thoughts, scattered like raindrops; grief is a strange thing.

It’s been almost a week and a half since my father passed away and I’ve been finding it hard to stay focused long enough to get anything done. I feel… scattered. I start on one thing and then get distracted by another thing and by the end of the day I never to seem to have actually finished any one thing. I’m easily distressed by noise, which sucks because my kids like to fight most of the time. My house is a disaster and if the health department could see the state of my floors right now, they’d probably quarantine the place. (OK, maybe it’s not quite that bad, but it is pretty gross to have crumbs sticking to your feet every time you take a step.) My kitchen needs to be decluttered and scrubbed down, and don’t even get me started on the state of my bathrooms. Or my yard.

Beyond the house, my blog and social media sites have been completely neglected since the beginning of the month, and my promising start seems to have petered out. I have things I need to get done but I am so freaking tired I can barely get through the morning, even with half a pot of coffee, let alone staying functional until after the kids go to bed so that I actually have uninterrupted time to work.

My thoughts are scattered all over the place. I come across pictures of my dad, and I kind of stop in puzzlement. How can he be gone? It doesn’t make sense. How does someone so unique and wonderful and special just… stop being here? How can it be that he is no longer here?

I see sci-fi movie trailers and my first thought is that my dad would probably love that movie. A news story popped up in my browser yesterday. It was about recruitment for a manned one-way mission to Mars… my dad would have been as excited to see that as I was.  It would have spawned an in depth discussion on feasibility, engineering, astrophysics, politics, and any number of old sci-fi books we both loved. And I don’t actually know anyone else who would be interested in any of this except my dad.

I know he’s gone. I was holding his hand and counting his breaths when they stopped. I kissed his forehead, already cold and gray by the time the coroners came to get him, and I looked into the once- familiar face that was so dear to me for so long and was shocked by the strangeness of it, clearly seeing that the presence I loved so much was no longer there.

I know he’s gone.

But it still doesn’t make sense to me.

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