One month

Tonight marks one month since dad passed.


And I feel like I have to say something.


Something.


I can't just ignore this marking of time. 


But I don't really have anything to say. 


Grief is such a funny bird, the way it flies it and out. 


Sometimes, it's just sitting quietly on your shoulder, riding along with you, a faint but very present reminder of what used to be there.


Or it flies in and out of your peripheral vision, darting in just enough to distract you but not enough to make you realize why you suddenly feel a lump in your throat. 


You may not even see it, but just vaguely hear it's gentle song throughout the goings on of your day. A melancholy or sweet melody, depending on what caused it's voicing of remembrance. 


And sometimes, sometimes. Sometimes it just seems to peck at your eyeballs until they weep and weep. 


(Gross, I know. But truthfully, how the pain feels on occasion.)


A very dear friend of mine who has walked these paths before told me, 


"And eventually, 


you will find that you begin to relish the little things that remind you of him, 




instead of fearing them." 



I am looking forward to that day. I see small, small peeks at that from time to time, but if I 

open up to it a little too much still, I have to quickly shut it back. 

For now, it's enough to have his cowboy hat hanging on a hook next to my bed, and a pile of 

photos in the drawer next to my bed.