After three days of rather detached and clinical responses to my father’s death, I’ve finally had a tremendous flood of emotions about him tonight.
I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m filled with rage. I don’t have adequate words to describe how shaken I am.
I picked up his last worldly possessions late Friday afternoon. He had little enough remaining that it all fit into his car, a white 2001 Toyota Avalon. I drove home with something like a sense of dread. The people with whom he had been living told me they had gone through his things — looking for a will or something that might give instructions about his wishes — and discovered journal entries and letters which I would find interesting. I haven’t looked for those yet.
But when I got home, I started his old MacBook Air. What I’ve found so far makes me sick.
‘This path leads to somewhere I think I can finally say, I’m home’
Economic Man needs no heart, because love and God are dead
End of life brought cancer patient to baptism six days before death
We repeat what we fail to repair, so I keep re-learning old lessons
Assassin or patsy? How can you trust any of the players in this case?
Ghost of Richard M. Nixon haunts Obama administration’s IRS fiasco
Midlife becomes big crisis when our self-deception stops working