Grief

I dreamed about my father for the first time since he passed away the other night.

In my dream I was small and I found his briefcase. I routed through it looking for important papers, but all I found were black Pentels and blank yellow legal-sized tablets. My father walked in the room and laughed, telling me it was time to stop playing.

I woke up with a jolt. I could smell the leather of that familiar briefcase as though it had been in the bedroom with me. I longed to fall back asleep and visit with him again, but it was not to be.

I find myself crying at odd times. The other week my friend Sean was in town from overseas. I drove into Philly to visit him and I was so happy...it's not often I get to see or talk to him. As I crossed the bridge I had a flashback of visiting my dad's office as a little girl. I remembered the smell of the office supplies, his big desk complete with ashtray and a pack of Camels (yes, you could smoke in offices then!) and the room-temperature bottles of Coca-Cola that were always on hand. I sobbed.

Grief is so lonesome. No matter who you speak to about your sorrow, or how many people you surround yourself with, grief still rips at your heart. Quietly. Relentlessly.

Endlessly.