That's how long its been since I last updated my blog.
One year and one day.
In that time, my world has changed. Its been destroyed and built up and revitalized all over the course of 12 months. I've become a wife, a well-traveled city-girl, and a daughter without her father.
I've typed and backspaced eight or nine times now, trying to write about all of the exciting new things infiltrating my life: a spectacular wedding, Luke's new career, a chic high-rise apartment. That's what I wanted this post to be about. But I'm left thinking about that last line; a daughter without a father.
You don't know it at the time, but you join a club when your parent dies. For a while, it feels like it defines you. Its full of people who pretend they know how to deal with guilt and pain-- and grief, and sorrow. We grit our teeth and smile, but none of us really know what the hell to do. Its full of people who look at you differently on holidays because they know what its like not being able to make a phone call or share a meal. Its full of people with open arms who suggest a Xanax or a pitcher of Mimosas on Christmas morning.
So while I'm excited to share my life and the resurgence of my writing, what I really want to do is call my dad. I want to tell him that I'm okay, mostly okay. I want to tell him that I'm 217 miles closer to mom. That I'm happy. That Luke is a great husband and partner. That Hippo would never fit on his lap now. And that I'm trying to clear my head so I can write again.
But writing is hardly about being cloudless. Its poignant and being so profoundly confused or messed up that your poor brain melts out of your head, tattered and tainted, and seeps on to bright white pages with fresh black ink.
So today, after one year and one day, I resurrect. I take my raw edges and stop trying to smooth them, carefully and delicately, like ripping a new edge will ruin the paper and should be thrown away. Today, I go on.
