Grief- swallowed up - 10 years old

Yesterday I went to a nurses pinning ceremony (nursing school graduation).  I was invited to lead a blessing of the hands and then for any graduating nurses offer an annointing of their hands.

After a fair amount of hooing and haa -ing I got a draft written, revised it, and revised it to the point of good. I'll be the first to admit it was a bit too verbose and I overused the word pivotal but in general it was very good.

But in my pondering this, pondering the touch of nurses, the people they touch the work they do I started wondering what the last hands were that touched my Dad (before he died).  I wondered about the nurses and doctors that accompanied him through the surgery to take out his organs.  I wondered what hands were his final live touch.  Did those hands take a minute, second, or moment to honor the body that held his life? Was it a perfunctory touch, simply moving on to the next touch, or did those final touches acknowledge a sacred passing.

I don't know.
I'll never know.

But I sat in the car yesterday, in my fully alive body, and felt the hole of my grief open up.
It was like inside of me their is typically a minnow (grief) , and then the minnow opened it's mouth to let the grief out and the mouth opened up as a large and vast as a whale.  I sat at a red light, at the intersection of Cherry and 12th in Seattle and wept.  As loudly as I did in those first months, as raw I was in the first year.  There I was again, sitting in the same pile of feelings.

That pile of feelings, that giant opening inside of me closed up almost as quickly as it opened up.  When I arrived at my destination 4 blocks later I was back to functional, and bordering on normal.

Today there is still a pool of emotion when I consider my Dad's final moment. When I ponder the final touch the may have received.  But it's the grief of 10 years.  Right there like a minnow, ready to swallow a moment, not swallowing my whole days.


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