So there have been days now when I forget about my Dad completely; I forget he lived, I forget how he was sick, and I forget that he passed away. He's a memory, and memories can easily be forgotten. But how morbid and scary is that? The man who helped raise me, the man I called my best friend for 20 years... now just a memory.
Then all of sudden I remember, and all of the grief and sadness that I once experienced creeps back into my life. What sucks is that I can't plan these "visits," or "dreams." He literally re-enters my thoughts and I have no control over when, where, or how he gets there.
Since I've been in California I've talked about him a lot, but again I feel detached. It's like he is a childhood friend, or a main character in the book that is my life, not the kind soul that I know he was. People respond with grief and looks of remorse, which all in all just makes me feel uncomfortable because they seem more effected by it than me.
Like I said before, my Dad visits at the most random of times. His last visit was Wednesday, January 20. It was 7:40 in the morning and I was in my first class of the day. All of a sudden I felt his presence and my brain instantly turned to mush. I stepped out of the room and tears started pouring down my face, I felt all sorts of emotions, the most powerful being guilt.
It had been weeks since I had felt my father with me, not even over the holidays had I sensed any sort of presence. This particular instance is what reassured me that he is not just a memory, he is a part of me. We all have parts of ourselves that we suppress at times whether we are aware of it or not. You can't lose a part of who you are, because without that part you wouldn't be you (does that even make sense)?
There are many different experiences, interactions, and people that helped shape me into the woman that I am today... and Andy Bloomingdale is one big part of that.
