I may have lost my father twenty-five years ago, but no-one told me about the complicated nature of grief.
I’m two months into fatherhood, and what I’ve experienced is far different to anything I’ve assumed. The feelings of detachment, escape and love are as real as they are insignificant.
Returning to Sacramento on a flight with drink and book in hand, one’s mind tends to wander to a time passed, and the vacant space off my hip.
Burying one’s father is an exercise in change, your old self, your concept of time, and indeed, the merit of what remains all flies out the window.
Very shortly, I will be a father. The only problem is, I don’t think I’m up to it. My partner has made the jump, but I’m unsure how.