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- Growing Up Bronx
The last few days I have been doing a lot of writing, but I am suffering. I am hurting, deeply. Even as I write this post, I have tears running down my face.
Before my dad passed away, we spent a few days together. He shared about four funny stories with me. I wanted to write these all down, but every time that I tried, I broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. A little more than three months have passed since my father left us, and I can’t remember his stories anymore. I managed to write one out, the story about him and the stolen vegetable truck. However, I can’t remember the others, except for little details that don’t cover the story.
The fact that I didn’t write them down sooner, the fact that I can’t remember, and the fact that I cannot sit with my father and hear his stories anymore is killing me. I’m so hurt by this, and I’m so damn sad. The futility of crying, the complete and utter helplessness that I feel, it just can’t be put into words. A few months ago, we sat across from one another, he struggled to breathe, he moved slowly, he was so sick. But we were there, talking, laughing, and sharing a few last moments together. Now, no matter what I do, no matter what I say, no matter how hard I cry, he is gone, forever. I just can’t believe it. Everytime I realize it, it’s like losing him all over again.
The last time we saw each other, was in the hospital, in public. My dad was very private, so he gave me a discrete hug, he said “Okay,” and he smiled. Reluctantly I walked out, knowing that I would never see him again. I wish I stayed. I wish I stayed. I wish I stayed.
I remember when I first heard the Luther Vandross song, “Dance with my father.” I remember thinking that one day I’d hurt like that, and here we are. My father and I never danced, but I’d give up nearly anything to be able to talk with my father once more.
Growing Up Bronx