Well, here it is. Georg died one year ago on a Thursday. The anniversary of the date is Friday, September 26, because that is how the calendar works, you know? The date keeps moving through the week, and at some point, in five or six years, I think (allowing for Leap Year), the 26th will once again fall again on a Thursday. Meanwhile, this first anniversary is definitely weighing on me.
I got into bed at 10:30 last night with every intention of getting a good night’s sleep, and all I could do was lie awake as though I had eaten a box of chocolate and washed it down with a double latté. I lay there for about an hour and then I got up and ate a bowl of granola with milk and puttered around on Facebook for awhile. Of course, that did absolutely nothing to help me feel sleepier. In fact, all I wanted was to eat more and start drafting this blog post.
So, that is what I did. Lately, things are in a “when-in-doubt-try-writing” mode. I am completely stressed out about the matter of settling Georg’s estate. It is quite amazing what a morass a person can leave behind if they are not careful. I know he did not intend to leave me and Illia with so many problems, but so it is. There are problems on top of problems, and the solutions are not at all clear.
Or rather, they are very clear, and it is the same solution that Georg struggled with his entire life. I must sell art. I must sell art to pay debts so that I can inherit my father’s estate. I wonder if Dad knew that none of this would belong to me and my sister until his debts were paid? I don’t think he realized how dire this would all be, and how much we stand to lose.
The very thought of it makes me want to bury my head under my pillows and not come out for a very long time. But here it is morning, and a Thursday to boot. Remember when I started this blog, how much Thursday meant to me? It was a day to do things for Georg. It was a day to honor his memory.
So, today, I will suck it up and move forward. I will smile today, for you, Dad. I will butter a piece of toast, drink my tea. I will admire the blazing sun which still rises over the lake every morning like a pink-yellow orb, no matter who dies or who is born. I will do my job. I will love my family and my friends. I will take care of things. And like I promised when you were in so much pain in those last days of your life, when I write your story, I will make it a good one, as light as feathers lofting on air.
I love you, Dad. I really miss you.
Your little girl,
Lisa
Lisa Vihos: Poet and Novelist 