Sunday Prayer

For some reason, Sundays conjure up my dad for me.  And by conjure up, I mean that on Sunday afternoons I especially miss him.  When he was alive and thriving, if I had not already seen him for breakfast on Sunday morning, Sunday evening was the time that we would catch up and tell each other about our day.  We'd regale each other with our interpretations of Meet the Press.  We'd talk about how annoying the wind was.  We'd argue about which of his grandchildren was cuter and invariably agree that each of them were perfect. And we'd always, always, always comment on the moon. 

We are the moon's fan club--- you and me, he would say.

He went from being wise and big and clever to weak and shaky and small in, what feels like, one week.  I know the reality is that my sister and I lost him, slowly, over a long period of time but looking back it doesn't feel that way.  It feels like we lost him from one moment to the next and it is this thought that hasn't lessened since his death.

It's like he disappeared suddenly without notice but we also lost him slowly and painfully over a long period of time. 

Both my sister and I have grappled with this thought since my father died and so tonight when I made sure to get everything done in order to hear Jane Gross talk about her book A Bittersweet Season on NPR's On Being and I heard her express so many of the exact same feelings and thoughts and fears and confusion around what it is like to nurse your dying parent into the grave I felt so much comfort --- in a very dense way. 

And so this is my prayer for this Sunday evening---that as I take each stumbly confused step on my travel time here with the moon watching --- that I will be given information in the form of another person's story that makes me feel less alone and ultimately stronger and more acclimated to my loss and that this might happen for so many others as well.

When In Doubt-Merge,
Mable of the Moving Forwards