3 plastic crates

I went to my Dad's house last weekend. It was long and tiring. So as predictable as clockwork, I felt a grey cloud settle over me on monday morning, and I spent the week fighting back tears.

I don't think I'll ever be able to put into words the sadness of seeing your Dad's legacy to the world, packed up in 3 plastic crates. The photos he kept, the poems he wrote, the bus timetables he hoarded. When someone at work asked me if I'd been helping "sort out his estate", I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I can also never, ever describe the horror of imagining what is happening to his body right now. I went to his grave, and I stood by it. I was 6 ft away from him. What's down there? I have had quite a few dreams - one where he was ground up and made into soup. Another where his coffin was left open at his funeral and we could all see him, half decomposed. Although it's been half a year already, I still have moments where I feel an almost physical lurch, as my mind remembers, and then adjusts to the fact that my dad no longer exists. How can I adjust, when I know his body is still in the ground? I sometimes feel a compulsion to go and dig it up, so I can see him, say goodbye one more time.

So it was a long, hard weekend. Followed by a long, hard week. The weekend just gone (sunny, warm, and with no commitments) was much needed. The grey cloud has shifted a bit now. I keep reminding myself, I'll get there in the end.