My father is dying.

My father is dying. 

My father is dying and yesterday I stood for 15 minutes in the aisle of the Hobby Lobby frozen, staring blankly at leather tooling supplies, flooded in memories from his time at Norristown State Hospital. 

Is that grief? Standing still in a store, awkwardly close to the rack, doing nothing for a solid 10 minutes, trying to navigate a mess of swirling thoughts? Not realizing how long you've been there and not understanding how you ended up in that aisle in the first place with your feet stuck to the floor like glue paper, muscles frozen and unyeilding like you're stuck in a dream? 

That must be grief. 

I process in words. In writing. In art. In prayer. In creating things. I process in spurts of all consuming emotion, tears and poetic strings of letters. I could put them in a journal and leave them there for no one to ever read. Or, I could put them here for the whole world to see, like underwear on the clothes line. I can't decide which way is right.

I've spent years shrouding our story, qualifying it, unveiling only the polished edges, in an attempt to protect others from their shock and discomfort, and myself from the shame their reactions caused, because they couldn't handle the beautiful raw truth of our lives. He is the most hard fought, challenged, deeply loving, enriching relationship I have ever had...and it's almost over. 

So today, I choose to hang my heart on the line...not for condolences, sweet words, stories, advice or comraderie. Not for comment, or judgement, answers or attention. I offer them because I have no other choice. I physically can't stop myself. I tried. For days. I sat on these words until they were painfully bursting from my chest. 

I won't let my father's life float away in stigma and shame, hidden in my journal, betting on the slim hope one of my children or grandchildren will care enough to read them. My father and I, his family and friends, worked too hard to let a life so rich go quietly into that dark night.