The Sixth Thursday

I can only assume I was ridiculously sad last night because it was the eve of the sixth Thursday. Six weeks since Georg died. Despite all I have been through: purchasing urns, collecting ashes, becoming a fairy, meeting with an attorney, holding a memorial service, I cannot believe that Georg is really dead. Dead and gone. Gone and never to return. It simply does not compute.

He doesn’t seem dead to me because his art is everywhere. I have his work stacked up all over my tiny house. His studio looks like he could walk in at any moment and start drawing. Whenever I see a flock of birds, I think of him. A fallen feather: him. An empty storefront with a “For Lease” sign in the window? Georg. He was always looking for the perfect studio space. I have inherited his CD collection, his photographs, his truck. I just want him to call me up again and say, “When are you coming over? Shall we go and get a little breakfast?”

Yes, yes we shall! I want to get a little breakfast. I want to drink coffee with you again. Right now. This morning. Can we go to Harry’s Diner? I miss you, Dad. I can’t offer you anything well-crafted or eloquent today. I just miss you and I want you to come back. Today. Now.

bird flockOn the sixth Thursday, in the tradition of the Tibetans, I am crying for you this morning, Dad, just like I was last night. Just like I will for many days yet to come. I water my soul with tears for you, Dad. I cannot and I will not let you go.

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