Gone

Sometimes I think it's particularly cruel that we lost my Dad at Christmas, his life fading away in the hospital bed surrounded by sparkling lights and festive round ornaments, doctors whose ties hung loose with red and green cheer.  

Sometimes I think it's particularly cruel how fast we lost him. One day hearing his deep chuckle reverberate across the warmly lit booth of a steakhouse, firelight dancing around as he savored the last drop of his martini, and the next moment death, swift and fierce and unexpected.

But really it's just that we lost him at all.  That we lose people, and they are gone, and they are still gone, and they will always be gone.  

And three years later I can see his watery blue eyes and freshly pressed shirt, silver orbs engraved with his initials holding shirtsleeves together.  I can hear his carefully considered tone, the way he measures his words, and we spend our days pretending death doesn't exist, that it won't come for us.  We make a pact with the world to live in active denial, shutting out reality at every opportunity.

But it does, and it will, and it's there, and he is not.  He is gone.