Life has an ill way of touching your heart enough to find yourself grieving in the most unorthodox places. For me, it was in a bar. Penguins playoff game in my left year, a drunken conversation about corporate buyouts in my right. It was one of those days where a glass of wine would make you feel better. The bartender poured it for me before I even finished checking if my debit card was in my purse.
I had this moment previously where I was upset about a potential date gone sour. He ghosted. Right after I sent him pictures to see if “my face matched my beautiful voice.” I fully understand that I will never be everybody’s type but it still hurts to be rejected. And there I was, staring at text messages in my phone that weren’t showing up. Ghosts, perhaps.
Hurt. I couldn’t understand it and I was frankly bewildered by my own emotions. But I needed to wax it all away and Riesling does that. Or so I thought. Because after four glasses, I was thinking about this dude, what he did and how he just told me everything he ever felt about me by leaving me the hell alone.
So I went looking for my Dad’s obituary.
I grieve for my father when I hurt.
It’s a trigger that I never want to go away.
And after searching four of five different configuration of his name, I could not find it. But I could find Aunt Shelly’s.
ciara roslyn-james 