the past year has delivered several blows. i've been kicked while down, injuries piled upon insults. gaping voids a keening reminder of recent loss.
and i sit here and type and think and none of it changes the fact that my papa is in the ground. his absence is a mystery, a black hole we're all destined to join.
i keep saying i want my papa back. but ownership of pretty much anything, especially people, is a myth.
his presence in my life was a gift. a glorious product of contingency, of coincidence and happenstance and love and hope, of grit and life and hard living.
my wounds are tender. i'm scraped up, burnt, broken.
but i hope.