It hasn't been busyness that's stopped my writing these past few days. Yes, I've been busy; yes, I've been caught up with all the doing and the buying and the wrapping and the baking. But it isn't lack of time or focus or even subject matter that has stayed my figurative pen.
It's grief.
This year is the first Christmas of my life without my father.
It didn't matter that there were decades of years I didn't spend with him.
He was there, his presence as palapable to me across the miles as the ocean.
And now, he isn't.
It's grief.
This year is the first Christmas of my life without my father.
It didn't matter that there were decades of years I didn't spend with him.
He was there, his presence as palapable to me across the miles as the ocean.
And now, he isn't.
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