I'm reading through the text messages my father and I wrote to each other over the last year. Our strange back and forth of similar minded musings. In the last month of his life I dreamed he took us on a trip South.
"I just woke up from a dream you were driving all of us through the countryside. We were going to find a place to pick apples but I wanted to harvest California poppies. In the dream you told me you love those flowers." It became me that was harder to love in the end. It was me that wouldn't let the walls down. Too afraid the hurt that happened when I did. The patriarchy is not gentle. It's better to be prepared than to feel. Is this true? I want to bring down the patriarchy for softness to occur. But who have I become in this?
Knight of cups.
I keep asking myself, what does it mean to me that my father is dead, and I know I am asking the wrong question.
What is the right question? What to ask God when the opening is cracked, letting my father into the ether. What question should I scream into the void?
Where do you go when you die?
Smoke, all around. My mother hands me a vile of my father's ashes. Dust to dust. The monk crossing my forehead reminding me, "dust you will become." My father is in the smoke erupting from the chimney. The vapors that join the clouds. Why are you handing me this pile of matter? My father is the wind.
He is gone and I'm not sad and I don't know why.
My walls haven't come down still. I am still afraid and I know this is the key to everything. I stopped drinking last week. It hasn't done much. I wonder if I can feel without alcohol.