The Hardest Thing

You would ask me : what's that hardest thing you had to do, or go through.   You think  I'd answer something about childbirth or raising children. You'd think I would say something about a relationship that was broken or trying to find myself out of a dark place.  You'd think I would say something about school bullies or work bullies.  If you didn't, well I would think that.  No, the hardest thing I have to go through is remembering that my father has died.  He's dead, gone, not coming back.  I have to admit, going through every day without him is almost as if I never had a father.  Don't get me wrong; I am not disowning him.  Going though everyday without him is normal.  I wouldn't have to interact with him on a daily basis.  He wasn't my neighbour so I didn't see him every day.  I might make a phone call and visit on a biweekly or even monthly routine.  So every day without him is normal. What is not normal is pushing away the onslaught of memories past and memories never to become.  What is not normal is wanting to slam on the breaks on the highway because this onslaught is just too much and I want to curl up in the ditch and hope that the pain flies over my head.  But it won't fly over my head because the pain begins in the pit of my stomach and spreads like an ink well spilled over on a table cloth.  The black pain will fill my core looking like a Rorschach ink blot and spread around my heart until in soaks it through.  It will make my limbs heavy and my eyes fill with tears until I blink.  When I blink, I allow the pain to wash over me and I cry it out.  What is not normal is feeling all of this in a millisecond and putting it on the back burner for another time, because I am driving on the highway and I have people that depend on my to get to my destination in one piece.  Though I do get to my destination in one piece on the outside, my insides are broken.