Living in the Past

You know what I realized? I’m living my life in the past. The day before my dad died to be exact. It was the day before my world came to an end; the day before my dad was murdered. In my opinion, his death hasn’t fully hit me, especially the murdered portion of the story.

The naive part of me still thinks he will be standing at the front door like he did the Saturday before he died, giving me a hug and telling me he loves me. But the reality part of me knows that just won’t happen.

Sometimes the phone rings and I still want to ask my mom if it was Daddy on the other line. Sometimes I don’t even register that it’s impossible for him to be the one calling. Other times I know it’s not him.

I feel like I’m living like the day before my dad died, like his death never really happened. I’m still in the sense that he’s going to come home, his car parked in my driveway, but I had to sell his car. I still think he’s going to call me on the phone and tell me he went on a long vacation, but I saw him in that hospital bed, I saw the death certificate, I saw the news on television and in the paper. This tragedy is real whether I face it or not.