The last time I said goodbye to you I knew I would never see you again. You didn’t even notice. You were so concerned with that phone call from her and, once again, said (without saying it) that she, who you’d known for five minutes was more important than me who had known you all my life.
It was that weekend you stopped walking. You thought you had till Christmas. You were going downhill so fast it was a matter of weeks.
It was that weekend when I had it all sorted and made my peace with you. That peace that I made unilaterally was made from sand and straw. It was delusional. Fake. Not authentic. As I walked out the gate and headed home to a distant city, I said out loud that you had made it so easy for me to say goodbye. (I cried writing this the first time because it has been exposed as simply not true).
I lied and I am not lying any more. You made it so fucking hard, Dad, and the pain that I tried to smother in bravado is still raw like it happened only yesterday not in 1996. And, what is more, the peace with you that I yearn for is still in a faraway country not contactable by phone.
Written in 2013, I no longer feel this pain that I felt so strongly, Dad. I am at peace as I hope you are.
© Rick Frame