It has been two months since my father took his last breath. Two months, and still the most innocuous of scenes can trigger a gut punch that renders me nauseous and exhausted, craving sleep to shut out the memories.
Yesterday some loose skin on my daughter’s dry lips had that very effect. I don’t think I will ever look at faces the way I did before.
And I appreciate the beauty of a sip of water more than ever, knowing that some day there might come a time when I want nothing more and yet: cannot swallow.
Does anyone ever truly go “gentle” into that good night? Years ago when I first read Dylan Thomas’ best-known poem — quite possibly in my father’s seventh grade English class — I thought the poet’s words were solely a command to his father.
But now, a little wiser and certainly more weary, I see the poem’s “rage” in an entirely new light.
Two months have passed. And I am seething.
