He died in that hot and bloody July when we could barely lift our heads.
He said goodbye without saying goodbye, went to say hello to all the ones who went too early.
He died quietly, alone. His body stopped.
He had no hashtags or protests, just daughters and siblings.
Surprised.
Crying.
I think Dad just got tired of being in a world where black death comes in the morning, greets you at lunch, and sits down at the dinner table.
He breathed out a final time. He left life behind.
I wanted to ask him how to keep going. Sleep disturbed, heart twisted, looking worry in the eyes like a bad staring contest.
I wanted to ask so many things.
But black death takes away the questions and the answers.
Silencing families since the first manacle.
Lips shut against the tide of time.
