Isn't it conceivable that maybe my father loved too much?
Felt too much, lost too much, knew too much? That he couldn't continue? That he had no choice but to leave? That he was truly tenderhearted until life kicked it out of him?
Who am I to say I wouldn't have given up, too? Who's to say I won't?
Tonight, I promise him I am grieving his loss without hatred, violence, confusion and a simple, more ordinary sadness. I wear his red sweater to sleep and write B.F.F. in black permanent marker on the sleeve.
It stains my sheets but I don't care.
I decide, in a way that can't be undone, I am my father's friend even and especially after death.
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