This morning I’m driving my now widower father, and my 44 year old sister (she lived with my parents, and so now lives with my father: let’s please not go there right now), up to our (my wife and mine’s – and I know that’s ungrammatical, but I don’t care right now) place in the Catskills for a few days.
We probably don’t have to do this, but I desperately want to. Dad agreed. He needs a different view and I think he knows that.
And I have to get the hell away for a while from this (my now late mother’s) October 26 place of death. Increasingly, I can’t bear this f-cking house. I never wanted them to move here to Pennsylvania (it’s not about PA itself; but let’s not go there either right now), and my late mother is “everywhere” here still, of course.
She died in a hospice hospital bed set up in the dining room feet away from where I’m typing this. And the adjoining kitchen where I am now – her domain if she had one; she loved to cook – seems like a museum. Neither my father nor my sister will ever use it the same way. What a sad waste. The stocks will run down. The various gadgets will go unused. It will cease to be anything other than a microwave corner, fridge, sink and a dishwasher. (Yes, he finally got a bl-ody new dishwasher. Thank heaven for Lowes.) There will be no style to it, no joy there.
There are stages of grief, I know. I’ve heard about those, but never had really paid much attention before. Right now one thing I can’t push long from my mind is I keep seeing my mother taking her last breath right before my eyes.
Sorry about this “rant” post. I hate this. Hopefully my own house will provide some solace.
Thanks for reading.