After losing Dad in September 2005, summer rolls around again, and I start having flashbacks and memories of those last days of caring for him at home and then at the hospital.
One of the last days he was at home was the day all those people were in the huge traffic jam heading north out of New Orleans away from Hurricane Katrina. I was at the house with Dad -- he sat in the family room and looked out the window where he could see me outside pulling crabgrass out of the flower beds. I remember when I came back in he took my hand and whispered to me -- "Thanks, I've been wanting to do that and somehow I just haven't been able to." That was SO Dad.
I've still got Dad stuff in bags and bins and suitcases and file boxes, going on nine years after the fact. I've got chairs in the garage that won't fit in my house. I've got a few of his clothes -- one of
his sport coats and a shirt and tie ... and none of it gets sorted, nothing gets
done.
"I've been wanting to do that and somehow I just haven't been able to."
I've got piles of grief baggage in my blood, in my brain, in my soul -- and somehow
none of it gets sorted, none of it gets done.
"Somehow I just haven't been able to."
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