I share my effort.
“ … Mom wouldn’t let you tell me she was dying?”
There, the question was asked; it came pretty easy.
Your eyes, Dad, filled with tears, “I don’t know; Ken or I should have … ”
I let you off the hook then. Too early; too easily; perhaps too habitually. Always the way.
There was one other question,
“Why didn’t you tell me anyway?”
but it remained both unasked and unanswered.
For eight years, I didn’t ask you again. And then, without warning, you moved – from 350 miles away to 1050 miles away. And got sick. And died. And took my answers to the nether world.
Had you lived, we’d have remained separate as ever, I imagine.
In the nine years you’ve been gone, I wonder if I should have asked you one more time; maybe you’d have actually answered.
I know not; I wonder still.
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