I call home every week. Let you know I’m ok. No, daddy, I haven’t been fishing. I’m working. I’m fine. I’m happy, I’m well. Two fishing or hunting stories I’ve heard a thousand times (but I listen like it’s the first time and ask questions when I recognize you’ve forgotten to tell a particular part..) Then it’s “I love you. Call you next week. Good bye”
Who am I gonna call when you’re gone? I need the # for heaven because I don’t know what I’m gonna do when the time comes to make that call and you won’t be answering.
You can’t be dying, this isn’t real. You’re the one that’s dying, why do I feel like I won’t make it either? It’s too soon, I’m not ready to say Good bye.
People I’ve care for have died, but dad, I can’t .. I can’t live with you gone.
I’m not gonna make it. I’m just not. You taught me to be strong, to be brave, to be tough, and never give up. So why, how call all the things you taught me to be.. I just unlearned them, forgot, it all disappeared the moment I heard you have zero chance at treatment?
What am I going to do when the call comes that it’s nearly time?
How did I manage to leave this last time?
Why did I leave at all? I should’ve stayed. Let the place go, the things in it, all of it..
I should’ve stayed.
I love you, daddy. Please, don’t go. Mom needs you, the kids need you.
I need you.
I know when I call home this week, you’ll ask me about my job, its fine….
I’ll mute my phone so you don’t hear me crying when I hear those fishing stories,
you won’t hear me totally losing my shit when you get to your favorite parts of the story.
Then I’ll unmute myself and without a trace of whimper in my voice, I’ll tell you “I love you, dad, call you next week. Good bye”