I looked at my Papa, mom, Nana, and my Opa. All crying, some begging God, some cursing God and some numb.

My Papa kissed me on the cheek, ruffled my hair, tickled my feet, and left for work, leaving me with mom and a bowl of Cheerios. Like most days, but this was not like most days.
Left to my own devices, I kept myself busy exploring and taking advantage of my newfound freedom, as any 18-month-old would. It’s time to take my exploration outside.

At work, the phone rings. Hello? ___ silence.
Hello? What! No!

I walked through the door to our home to find law enforcement officers and paramedics all blurred into a shapeless mass of urgency and despair.

I have no idea how long I was outside or how I ended up in the pool, but there I was. The paramedics’ haunting words—several minutes. Several minutes of trying to remember the drills that the swim instructor taught me, of trying the find the edge, of fighting the water-weighted clothes, of trying the catch my breath. I need to catch my breath. HELP! Help. help, hel….

At the hospital thirteen years ago was the last time I kissed you on the cheek, but not the last time I said I love you.

I love you.

Papa

Part of me doesn’t want to write this because I suspect you don’t want honesty. You probably want to hear that I’ve moved on and accepted his death in whatever context acceptance means for you.

No one wants to hear how hard this is. The circumstances and questions surrounding his death and the endlessness of missing him.
It’s been 4384 days, and I’m pretty sure you think that I should be over it by now. But the truth is, I am at the beginning of what will be a lifelong affliction – missing him forever.
4384 days! That’s 4384 “papa, I’m not sleepy” bedtimes and 8768 good morning kisses, because there were always more than one.

I know that most of you can’t imagine this loss because you keep saying, “I can’t imagine.” I keep thinking, “You won’t imagine. You shouldn’t imagine. But maybe, you can imagine my pain, and that’s why you need me to be ok.”
Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you’re capable of imagining. If you look at me and genuinely know me, you don’t have to imagine that nightmares are real. I’m living proof.

My version of acceptance involves carrying my pain – and Aaron’s memory – forward into a much darker existence than you can imagine.

There is a light here – the kind that doesn’t create a shadow. It’s not more than starlight or the slenderest of crescent moons. It’s not much, but it’s enough to fight off the shadow of my grief with the persistent glow of hope.

I want to be clear that I’m not angry at anyone. God, the universe but certainly not you. Your support is undeniable and unwavering; without you, I probably wouldn’t be here.

But I am angry. Sometimes.

By Shaun Sima
https://chef-pocket.com/aboutme/

P.S. I post for my edification as part of my dedication to jumping into the deep end of the internet brand pool. My posts are part raw life journal and part discovery of my voice.

P.P.S There isn’t very much satisfaction in getting the world to accept your viewpoint and praise you. If you only want to hear your opinion, talk to the mirror.