Today is the anniversary of my father's death.

[conuly]

It was also a Friday. (This means, I realize now, that my mother didn't even get a Mother's Day that year, which must have just sucked.)

That year one of my sister's routines for the dance recital was to Carribean Blue. My father used to stay in the waiting room while we practiced because, really, there was no point in heading home just to turn around and come back. I guess he liked the song, and it is a pretty song, and that year that one dance was dedicated to him.

And this was what was playing when I went out to get dinner tonight. Here I am trying to watch the girls, order the food, and listen to the song.

I actually stayed at the dance studio the day my father died, until somebody could pick me up. It was close to the bus stop. It seems strange to me, it was years ago, but I can remember the studio so well - the chairs, sitting on the carpet carefully shaking a soda to watch the bubbles (NOT to open it later, thank you!), the paneling in the dressing room, the cardinal that lived in the overgrown backyard that you couldn't get into. (I thought it was a robin. I'd never seen a robin that I knew of, and I knew from reading English books that robins are called Robin Redbreast, so I thought a redbird must be a robin. I can recall it now and realize it was a cardinal the whole time.)

I can remember details of places and things so clearly, but specific stories? Specific times at the dance studio waiting with my father, or dancing...? Those memories could be gathered together in a small heap, and tied with string. It's not fair. I'd rather remember all the individual stories but be unclear on how, exactly, things looked and sounded during them.

Comments

[trialia]

*hugs*

Oddly enough, Mother's Day is the anniversary of the death of another friend's mother. :/ It's sad to think about. I lost my mother eight years ago, so I know it gets easier, but...not much. *hugs you hard*

[conuly]

*hugs back*

You know, it's been more than half my life, but there's still times I come into the house wanting to tell him something, and he's not here. (Well, I suppose for him to BE here would be creepier.)

[queenlyzard.livejournal.com]

*hugs*