I find myself weeping mostly when we're headed home from Jersey City back to Parlin on the turnpike. Maybe it's muscle memory. All those nights we left Jersey City to go home and pack more clothes for the next few days only to return to waiting in Jersey City.
A good friend reminded me that Dad's moment of death is only a part of his life, not his entire life.
Tonight all I could think about as we drove down to Exit 11-GSP, was how the men in black from the funeral home carried my Dad away in a navy blue body bag. I didn't see them actually place my Dad's body in the bag. But I watched them carry the body bag from the bedroom and through the living room.
The hospice nurse warned us that if we didn't want to see them do so, we should go to another room. She mentioned that she'd had a hard time the first time she witnessed a death in hospice care, and the body was carried out.
I held the door for them as the men in black went down the stairs and placed Dad's body into the back of a black SUV. All I could scream inside my head was, They're taking my Dad away in a body bag . . . how am I watching this?
No, it wasn't a bad dream.
