Two weeks, one day

I arrived back in Seattle last night. Things get familiar, sometimes. But there is always something missing. Things look hazy sometimes. And I'm not really all here.

It's coming out in small fragments--those last two nights. In maybe a few months, all the bits and pieces that make up the story will have been shared. I'll throw a party and invite everyone who knows one thing or another and we can take turns with what we know. And then the story will be out. What a depressing party.

The parts that are hardest to talk about--that I haven't talked about--are the physical realities. Respiratory failure. The fluids. The sounds. The suffocation. Touch. Taste. Smell. Sight. Sound. All there. And then nothing but cold, and then colder.

I called my dad tonight and asked him, "How was last night?" He told me that when he got home after having dinner at my aunt's, it felt like everyone was around him. I asked him whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. He said, "Sometimes it's better not to think too much." He took a sleeping pill and fell asleep, he said.