At that, I pictured my mother – her body diminished, her faculties failing her, shuffling awkwardly about in a world that was closing in around her – and a wave of guilt hit me. You shouldn’t be here. Despite everything, I should have been.
It wouldn’t of been possible, but I feel that with my Dad, death & guilt is an impossible pill to swallow, it makes itself at home, just off track from everything else & waits, ready to slam you to the wall or drop you to the floor the second it feels it’s tethers loosen, no escaping it, no box big enough to fully contain it. It just is
