7 months and 6 days

I’m sitting in a cafe right now, not sure what I’m going to write or how.

Its been a long time since I sat and wrote anything not work related.

I am writing this Valentines day 2018. As of today (14 Feb) it has been…*google calculator*…221 days since my dad died.

7 months and 6 days apparently.

I am sitting in a cafe, trying not to cry. I’m also wishing I’d picked a cafe a little further from my work, but hell, I’m writing this over my lunch break.

William on his birth certificate.

Bill to his mates.

Billy to my Mum.

Pa Bill to my kids.

Dad to me and my sisters.

On Saturday, 8 July 2017, he died. Complications from stage 4 lung cancer that was only discovered in fucking June.

Not a lot of time to get used to the idea.

7 months and 6 days later and to be honest I’m still not used to the idea.

I try to avoid the lurking reminders that he is just not there anymore. Typing this is so fucking hard because I don’t want to admit he is dead. Theres a gnawing roaring hole left where he was. It’s quiet most of the time, but its just waiting for me to slip forget not to think about it.

7 months and 6 days might seem a long time, but I needed to wait until I could see the keys through the fog.

I’m not sure I waited long enough.

He was 67 years old.

Fucking 67.

Not very old. Not old enough to be gone.

He’s gone and 7 months and 6 days later I still hate it.