Actually, I’ve been right here. At home. In town. Not walking across Spain…or any other delightful place. But mentally I’ve been away.
My father died last week. He started to get seriously ill last fall and declined swiftly until I crossed my fingers he wouldn’t die on Christmas.
Then time stood still while my father spent his last week of his life confounding the hospice nurses: who started off predicting he had less than 24 hours to live–for about 4 days–then spent the next three days commenting on how stubborn he was. (He was!)
In the process, I grew numb. Work on my book became hard to do–not just because I didn’t have time, but because I wore my father’s dying like a heavy fur coat–it enveloped and immobilized me.
I probably should say at this point, that my father was not a good father, or even a good man. My father’s death is sad, but losing him doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as his absence when I was a child. Still, he was the only father I had.
That is by way of saying, this blog isn’t dead. This project isn’t set aside. I might be slow returning but I will be back.