The week, to be honest, didn’t start out too well. On Monday, Dec. 1, my dad passed away. It was expected and peaceful, but that doesn’t make it easier.
When I was a kid, my dad was the one who told me bedtime stories and sang me lullabies. (Like “Hey You,” by Pink Floyd. That’s a lullaby, right?) He was the one who played board games with me and taught me how to play card games. And he NEVER let me win; if I beat him in a game, it was because I actually beat him. He was the one who encouraged me to write and tell my own stories.
The child in me always wanted to hear my parents say they were proud of me for my books and other things I’d done. My mother, who passed away three years ago (to the day that my dad passed; I’m pretty sure he intended it that way) never said it. My father, over the past three years, made sure he did.
I’m not sure I’ve quite wrapped my head around him being gone yet. I admit I’ve been doing some escapism with my writing; since I got the news Monday night, I’ve made three book covers; revised, expanded, and done the first round of edits on one short story; and written and done first edits on another short story. I’ve also made a bunch of phone calls and gone to Maine to deal with some of his belongings and arrangements; I’m an only child and so was he, so I’m the sole next of kin. Fortunately, my kids and kids-in-law are helping. And, in an entirely different way, so are my werewolves.
I don’t really know how to end this post, so I’ll just say, RIP, Dad.