It’s hard to believe it’s been thirteen years (in one month at least) since my father died.
I remember the first year, waking up to the thought that I wouldn’t make it until bedtime, simply because I would die from the heartbreak.
The thought of not being able to carry on for anything in the world hung in there for two years.
For the third year I began to think that perhaps it would be possible to heal.
Fourth year I realized I could somehow, through some odd miracle, learn to live without him.
And nine years after that realization I can say that I’m doing good in the matter.
For a while I envied those with a father, but now I don’t even do that anymore.
I have a new father since three years back.
And I guess you lose touch with your parents when you start to think of becoming one yourself.
At least a little.
Or maybe that’s just me…