We know that grief— so raw and bloody— is a traffic accident you want to look away from. Because it may be you next time, and you try to make sense of how short life can be
I
’ve passed many milestones that come with raising a family:
bris, upsherin, bar mitzvah, graduation, wedding. They flowed by as married life gained speed and momentum, a river of plans and anticipation, excitement and joy.
Until I reached the new milestone I’ve just passed, one I wished to never know of — aveilus for my father. I’ve sadly joined the ranks of the yahrtzeit candlelighters, the Yizkor sayers, the people who knowingly speak about “the year.”
I’m now a fatherless child.
At 46, you’d think I would’ve already understood the concept of loss. When I married, I was blessed to still have two sets of grandparents, as well as my husband’s. Their losses hurt terribly, but don’t compare to the howling wilderness of missing my father. The void is huge, the mixture of emotions a never-ending maelstrom of sorrow, regret, shock.
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