60, 60, 24, 7, 52.
My father's still gone.
It's... it's one of those things so fucking big that you can only see it out of the corners of your eyes, because when you turn and stare right at it there's no way you can see the edges, let alone the details. It's just too fucking big. Like trying to understand the scope of the planet while you're still standing on the surface.
It's so fucking big that it sneaks up on you. I was coming home from the Acme today, and when I turned around to lock the door behind me suddenly all I could think about was my father, made small and weak and bald by the cancer, in constant pain, struggling to breathe past the tumors and God knows what else in his lungs, telling me to take care of his grandchildren. Grandchildren that will never know their grandfather, just like I never knew my grandfather, dead long before I was born.
I still can't believe that he's gone. It's just... it's so wrong. So unjust, unfair, so... wrong. "You'd think someone would have told us, that there was a hole in the world." You go through things that hurt, you go through what you think is loss, and you think you fucking understand, but one day you wake up and there's a hole in the world and nothing's ever going to fill it. No one and nothing you love is ever going to make that hole go away.
Twelve steppers and all the other addicts talk about taking things a day at a time. Fuck day to day. I exist second to second, waiting for the next time the fact that he's gone is going to sneak up on me, the next time I'll be doing something perfectly fucking normal and suddenly find myself leaning against the wall, fighting back tears because he's still gone.
I don't have the fucking time for living day-to-day; I just tell myself- sixty seconds, sixty minutes, twenty-four hours, seven days, fifty-two weeks. A whole lifetime, measured out in it's smallest parts, waiting for the next time it sneaks up on me.
It's... it's one of those things so fucking big that you can only see it out of the corners of your eyes, because when you turn and stare right at it there's no way you can see the edges, let alone the details. It's just too fucking big. Like trying to understand the scope of the planet while you're still standing on the surface.
It's so fucking big that it sneaks up on you. I was coming home from the Acme today, and when I turned around to lock the door behind me suddenly all I could think about was my father, made small and weak and bald by the cancer, in constant pain, struggling to breathe past the tumors and God knows what else in his lungs, telling me to take care of his grandchildren. Grandchildren that will never know their grandfather, just like I never knew my grandfather, dead long before I was born.
I still can't believe that he's gone. It's just... it's so wrong. So unjust, unfair, so... wrong. "You'd think someone would have told us, that there was a hole in the world." You go through things that hurt, you go through what you think is loss, and you think you fucking understand, but one day you wake up and there's a hole in the world and nothing's ever going to fill it. No one and nothing you love is ever going to make that hole go away.
Twelve steppers and all the other addicts talk about taking things a day at a time. Fuck day to day. I exist second to second, waiting for the next time the fact that he's gone is going to sneak up on me, the next time I'll be doing something perfectly fucking normal and suddenly find myself leaning against the wall, fighting back tears because he's still gone.
I don't have the fucking time for living day-to-day; I just tell myself- sixty seconds, sixty minutes, twenty-four hours, seven days, fifty-two weeks. A whole lifetime, measured out in it's smallest parts, waiting for the next time it sneaks up on me.