I am tired of hearing our daughter say, “Appa died…”
I suppose I will hear it as it evolves with every stage of her development- over and over again.
Because I pass your clothes in our closet, it’s hard to believe you will never return to my house. Is it denial for me to want to keep things for you? To want to renew your domain name subscriptions for blogs you kept, water your cello, have your washed clothes in our dresser?
I feel like a broken record but I just don’t get this. It’s all still so hazy and dream-like. I feel like friends will soon tire of me- asking them if my husband really died, and telling them I just can’t process it. How many times will I have to question an empty room, “You died?” before I am able to process.
How many times?
Tonight I say good night and goodbye to an aunt and uncle who were visiting the past few days, close and lock the door.
Change your diaper, put you in your pajamas, and go to the kitchen to get you oo yoo- (milk in Korean).
While I am there, I stop and look in a mirror behind the sink. I speak to my reflection. “This is really happening. Dan has died.” The eyes get watery and my nose and lips get pink. My mouth moves in a strange shape. Then I see the different fractured parts of myself staring back at me. Maybe one is my soul and one is my intellect but the eyes looking back at me certainly change. One is tiny and in shock. The other looks at her with comforting but horrified eyes as if to say, “I know…I know…yes, it’s true. I’m so sorry for you.”
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