40 days

Today is 40 days since my dad left forever.

All this time, I hardly sleep, I feel extremely bad, and I work almost automatically.

All this time I don’t realize and don’t feel that he is not there: "Well, there’s just no connection in the LPR; maybe he went to the country; maybe he’s messing around in the garage; maybe he went somewhere with friends; but he will definitely call, get in touch, and let me know that everything is fine with him, so that I do not worry."

It seems to me that in recent years, when my mother left, he did everything "so that I don’t worry."

He loved me and Margo very much and protected me from any negative and even annoying information.

He did not tell me that one night in the summer he spent the night in a car near the entrance of the house, because his back hurt terribly and he could not go up to our sixth floor because of it (the elevator has not been working since 1997).

He did not say that he had an arsenal of anesthetic injections in his kitchen, like in the traumatology department of the regional hospital, or that he had learned to inject himself.

When I came to him last and stabbed myself, he grumbled and said that he did not understand how it was possible, for himself or for the living. And I pricked and pricked. Because I have been suffering from wild daily back pain for many years, I will not anger God, but I thank God that I can walk with my own feet and overcome this pain. He could not.

Today was Thanksgiving in our church. And I have a lot to thank God for. But today I thanked Him for letting me see Daddy, tell him how much I love him, laugh at once from the bottom of my heart, feed him with my hands, and hold hands before his long journey to Eternity.

There is no word "loved" or "loved." I love him.

I will wait for a meeting in heaven with him and with my mother.

My dears, thank you for everything. And 40 days is just a figure that marks the boundaries of our mourning.