This is random and unfinished, but it’s been a while since I wrote something for myself, so here’s something.
My dad died when I was 15.
My husband has been hoarding, destroying, or otherwise causing silverware to disappear.
These things are kind of alike.
I was at Wal-Mart recently and in a moment of magical memory, I actually remembered that for the last two weeks, despite having just unloaded a clean dishwasher, there were virtually no forks in our silverware drawer. This is weird because less than six months ago, I just reloaded all of our silverware. WTF, right? I have suspicions. But what would I gain from accusing my husband, or even (mock) innocently inquiring if he had any rogue silver stashed in his office? Would he dramatically say “Bwahaha! Yes! I have all the forks and you can’t have them!”? No. That’s ridiculous. That also would do little to solve the problem.
When I remember my dad’s last days, I don’t feel much anymore. I used to feel rage, sorrow, disappointment and blame toward myself and others. And what did I get out of it? NOT SHIT.
Much like the forks, it’s easier, more logical, to just accept the facts and move on. We had plenty of forks. Then we didn’t. So we got more forks. My dad was alive. Then he wasn’t. I was still alive. Raging at the injustice of my loss did nothing. Feeling inexplicable sorrow did nothing. Blaming myself for things that were beyond my capacity and control didn’t change the circumstances. Neither did blaming anyone else.
For a long time, I felt untethered. Like I had no anchor. A dad should be an anchor, right? But the days continued to pass. I wasn’t lost at sea, I was just making a series of bad decisions and using the excuse that I didn’t know any better because blah blah blah.