A Sense of Loss
My father is ill. He is in the hospital I am supposed to be concerned. Worried. Afraid. Sad. Something. I am not. Neither am I glad. I am just....aware of it. This is not a delayed reaction. This is my full reaction. "Okay." Chief among the emotions I am not good with is grief. I just don't feel it. Perhaps at most, an absence. A space where a person once was. A lack of reaction where it once existed. But it is not in me to break down. To cry over a lost person. I mourn, yes, but in my own way. A recognition of the person and their life. And that is it. Is my father dying? I don't know. Am I worried? For the way it will effect the future, effect my mother (her ability to live in her own home, her ability to survive without him guiding her steps). But do I worry that my father will be gone? No. Do I worry what my last words to him were? No. They are not important. I have said all I need to say to him. I have told him I no longer blame him, that