I stand on the other side of fear
And I’m alive. He isn’t.
I feared this moment for years
As my father grew thin and distant.
I imagined it, but in all my scenarios
There was order, where in real life
There had been chaos.
The failure of imagination.
There’s a bruise inside my chest.
I feel it when I breathe.
Can’t cry it out. Can’t cry.
My mother caressing my father’s gray hair.
Snow thick over the grave.
No amount of talking
About him, about her, about us,
Will make a difference now.
The failure of language.
There was only fear.
I spent the last month of my father’s life terrified
Of what was happening to him,
Of what was happening to my mother.
If my being terror-stricken had bought him
Time or health
The fear would’ve been worth it.
Now I stand on the other side of fear
And I have no words.
Except one. Cancer.
My father, Georgel Aramă, died on December 25, 2014. At the beginning of last year, he talked to me about something that had mattered a lot to him, his work. He talked and I took notes and I wrote his story and I called it A Time for Love.