The night after my dad’s death

I’ve been lucky. Death, until now, has been clean for me. Literally.

Tonight I walked into my parents home, after the trip down south, and saw my father’s blood on the dining room floor. He bled to death last night.

I’m not sure how to deal with this.

I’m so soft. And maybe too self indulgent in my pain. There is privilege even in grief, until there isn’t.

Papi, quiero pensar que seguís estando tras la puerta cerrada de tu cuarto. Dormido, ahora, para encontrarnos a la mañana. Pero la sangre no me deja.

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