I knew it was coming.

When I’d planned #write365, I did so knowing full well that my father, who had bravely battled a brain tumor for the better part of two years would pass along into whatever waits for us after the world in which we live and which we will leave. I shrugged, and figured I would be fine. There had been plenty of time to rationalize my grief, to set and sort my feelings and tell him I love him.

And so, I planned and plotted and plot planned. I wrote intricate stories about backstories that would not see the light of day, but would be there to ensure that Ewa Stolarczyk’s friendship with Anita Sobczyk was real, and that they were the founders of the Sick Clique. There were fictional streets written based on factual towns.

On April 20, he passed, and I was sad, but I knew it was coming. There were feelings sorted, and ready to be dealt with. Death until now was easy peasy. You would be sad a few days, and never forget about who passed, but life would go on.

We awoke on April 21 and the tornado hit. Feelings flew every which way, and in the end the only truth was chaos. Up was now down, but only if down was left. Emotions were raw and brutal. The Sick Clique took a back seat and soon after, got out of the car and hadn’t been thought of, aside from clips and phrases and in passing thought as though they were old friends I’d not talked to in a few years, but wouldn’t pick up the phone to talk to for whatever reason.

Things are steadily improving. I told someone the night he’d passed that I’d moved on already to the 5th stage (acceptance), except I was truly in stage 1. And I think I still am. But, I’m ready to be angry and I’m ready to bargain. And someday soon, I’ll accept that the motherfucker known as Cancer took a wonderful life who’d be as proud of me writing as he was of me not writing.

I’ll get back here. Soon.

Real soon.