My father died this week. He was 97. I quit posting about him a year and a half ago when the situation with him and my Non-Saintly Brother turned from "King Lear" to Jerry Springer.
Saintly Brother and I didn't know our father was in the hospital. We didn't know that he was dying. We weren't called when "the family" was assembled to say goodbye. Non-Saintly Brother is like that, and seemed to enjoy it.
I found out my father was dead through a voicemail left the next day by the widow of a second cousin.
I'm not sure what to say here but feel like I should say something. I've been grieving over both of my parents for a long time, so I have a head start on the grief process.
I could tell some stories, but I need to decide if that's what I want to do. But know this: love conquers death.
Turns out that we have more friends and loving relatives than we could have possibly imagined. All they have done for us is more overwhelming than the death itself, and it creates a debt I cannot repay. All this love, coming in like a strong surf surging around my ankles, washing away the grief and the conflicts and filling every space with love, love, love.
I am humbled, grateful and speechless.