These writings feel more disjointed. There are less themes. More of the same.
When I hear your old bus put on the brakes outside our building, I barely notice it anymore. I can't even conjure up the excitement I used to feel knowing you'd be on that bus. Though I saw you do so recently, in a hazy dream the other night. You're always in my dreams now. Always sad and always lost to me somehow.
I love that my therapist, who lost her daughter at 18 in a car crash, told me her husband, a pastor, said when he got to heaven he'd have to say, "You're gonna have to step aside Jesus, because I need to see C------." I feel that way too. Step aside.
In the car today on her way to swimming lessons, Audrey says to me out of nowhere, "Some other kids don't have daddies that died." "Yes, that's right," I try to explain briefly that this is very unusual and sad and Appa never thought he'd die but got into an accident. Later in her bath, the two little wooden people in her wooden sailboat with the rainbow sail are according to her, "a little girl and her daddy."
I see, my beautiful daughter, by the look in your eyes when others play with their dads, that you miss him. You miss having a father. It's not fair to you and I hate it. I hate how all of the t-shirts and pajamas I see for you the other day are for "Daddy's little girl" or some variation of that. I put the hangers down in a hurry. I hate the look in your eyes when I read a story that has a dad in it. I hate that I want to give you everything in the world but can't give you the one thing that you need.
Now that Audrey's so verbal and so much more like a miniature person saying things like, "I'm not a fan of that," or "my pleasure," as she helps me unload groceries, I often find myself wondering where she came from. And I think, even though I know scientifically, biologically, how she arrived here- there still feels like there's something extra missing. But where did you come from? I think. And I wonder why it isn't enough to marvel at the science of it- the tiny fetus developing over nine months in the dim water to the muted sounds of the waiting world.
And it's the same way with your death. I know rationally what happened to your body and I even saw it ten days later. I know it's now buried. But still- I am always left thinking, "But where, oh where did you go Dan?"
These two, life and death, are not ours to know.
"Where are you? Where are you?" I ask nightly.