InsaneJournal

Sometimes I forget my father's dead. It's easy to do here. Just visiting, home still a snapshot from the last time we were all there at once. His smile and my mother's laugh, wet with wine and glowing in warm orange candlelight. And a wicked glint in my brother's eye and my sister's baby blonde curls just peeking over the table as he chased her.

And then I remember that no matter how much I practise, I will never open a door to them.

But I have learned to open doors to friends, so that's a small victory to be proud of. And it's all right to grieve and be happy at the same time.