zoë siskos

For some reason when I first walked into the house after they took my Dad’s body I was surprised to see an empty bed. I don’t know why I was surprised, and perhaps that’s the wrong word for it, but I had to take a second to process that it was empty.

And soon the bed will be gone and there will be more emptiness to fill the emptiness that is already there. I feel like the hadron collider switched on in my gut.

The funeral home had a plush, velvet body bag to take him away in. Velvet, yes. I wanted to take a picture of it but thought better of it.

My mom was there when he died and she said it was very peaceful. He opened his eyes wide, took a deep breath, took another deep breath and it was over. My mom was holding one hand and his brother held the other. I’m glad he wasn’t alone. I’m glad my mom wasn’t alone.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or just numb, but I’m handling this pretty good. I’m certain I will cry soon, and cry hard, because I cry at everything. But not this. Not yet.

It has been wonderful sharing stories with all the family and friends that have been by. Like how my Dad could eat a loaf of bread in one sitting and not even flinch (and he was fit, not fat). Or how he would complain that the coffin was too expensive and suggest that he build one instead.

I bet if he had had the energy he would have.