A funny feeling nudged my insides the other day. Urging me to do what I dread most at the moment. It was done not because of my sense of responsibility. Least not out of love. He would have wanted us to do that. He loved them all. He never verbalised the feeling. It was his actions that spoke volumes. With that in mind, we solemnly (and grudgingly) made our way to LAS the other night. I was tensed up. I didn't know how to react (if there WAS something to react to). Nor what to say. It was stressful. But the visit proved to be a little different. I saw him. That night. When he spoke, I cried. Quietly. It was something I had no control over. I was sure I felt love. Warmth. Peppered with a sense of regret. And longing. I could not have asked for more. As the night crept up on us, I began to understand what that funny feeling really was. I never thought that after all this time, the memory of his sudden passing would have me choking back tears. The hectic schedule that I immersed myself in voluntarily always left me exhausted. Exhausted enough not to reminisce the past. I hide myself behind the walls of denials. Beneath shadows of 'strength'. After the visit, I was stripped bare. I felt vulnerable. Should I take this as a sign that my body has had enough? That my heart has reached its saturation point? |
