We met again in my dreams not so long ago, where enticingly the constrictive bonds of reality and time are broken. Sometimes I wish I could live the rest of my life in the borderlands of wakefulness and dreams, if only to have you near. To constantly feel your presence, not in fleeting bursts.
I keep searching for you, da. These past few years it feels like I've been retracing your footsteps, stubbornly chasing rapidly fading footfalls. Praying, begging to please let me see you where you last stood when you were whole. Before that cursed aneurysm led to a stroke, which in turn began a slow decay 18 months in the making. You, my Hawaiian Superman, lay immobile as your body betrayed you and turned into Kryptonite.
Almost 8 years ago, I told you it was okay to let go. And so you flew. You were free.
But I have not let go, da. Where do I begin? Grief's paths have so many twists and turns, and I am still lost. Standing in the middle of nowhere. The roads before and beyond are daunting, and I cannot trust my own hesitant steps. My feet are much too small to walk surely into the forest that I know holds promises of new beginnings.
I'm scared to let go.