My Sunday Scribblings this week, I wrote just six paragraphs, barely touching the surface really, on a pilgrimage. I didn't go into details. There are so many details about my dad's illness, his surgeries, his death, his funeral, and beyond. I keep them stuffed down nearly all of the time. If I let myself dwell on that time of my life, so many of those intense feelings come out full blast and threaten to overcome how I feel about people today.
I could go into details, maybe try to provide context -- from my standpoint -- to explain this comment I received on that post:
"'A select few did not.' His second son, the one living across town, was instructed not to attend, because he and his father were estranged at the time of his death. And his oldest daughter, showing solidarity for the brother, and wishing not to show support for the proceedings without all the family being allowed to attend, also opted not to participate. They say time heals all wounds. Me, I'm not too sure."
That comment is from my older brother. I'm sure the details he would give to provide context -- from his standpoint -- would differ from my own.
We remember what we can. We forget what we can. Sometimes it's for the best. It's what we need to do to go on, to forge relationships with new people and to repair relationships from our past.
Residing too long
in memories of that time
makes me fade to black.
[For One Single Impression's suggested prompt of "fading memories."]