Six months. Half a year.

Some days are okay. Most days are okay.
Then, I feel guilty for being okay.
Then, I’m not okay.

Grief is weird. I can be perfectly content, then a thought will pop in my head. A memory. Something about that last day he was alive.

I still have a lot of things I wish I would have said over the years. Funny how the last three months that we had, they didn’t seem like important things to say. Now, I wish I would have said thing. Asked questions that are pulling at my heart.

But, yeah, most days are okay.

This time last week, I was sitting at my Dad’s bedside knowing that he was dying. I promised him that he wouldn’t be alone when he died.

I reminded him of the weekends when I was little. He had gotten me a Barbie bat. It was pink foam with a purple handle embossed with hearts and stars. He would pitch to me, I’d hit and run the bases. Then, I’d have to go get the ball so he could pitch again.

Grief is weird.