Yesterday, when I was at my grandmother's for dinner, I asked her if she missed him. Emotional stuff is not something I ever broach with her, but this time I felt it was time. She didn't say much, only that she did and she didn't. It's the same for me. I do and I don't.

I don't think about his death much, I can't. If I think about it I have to think about how he died, and about how I feel about how he died. He fell off the toilet (you can laugh about that some day, just not today) and his bodyweight pressing down on his lungs caused him to suffocate. We couldn't move him. We were angry with him. Angry for being drunk, again, for falling somewhere and getting in our way, again, we yelled at him, we were mean. He died, and the last thing he heard from us was our disgust and our anger and our frustration.

I hate that he had to die like that. I hate thinking about what must have been going through his mind as he lay there. It makes me sick in a way that I cannot describe. How can I ever say I'm sorry? I can't. I'm desperate to do so, but I can't.

2007 05 29