Surreal

When Jennifer Aniston divorced Brad Pitt years back, she eventually graced the cover of Vanity Fair (September 2005) to tell her side of the story.  I remember this article because of this line:

While the tabloids insist on dividing Aniston’s emotions into neat, distinct chapters, the reality is that pain and denial and anger and resignation all blur together, sometimes at the same moment—and the lengthy process of mourning is nowhere near over.

Mondays will never be the same for me, or for anyone in my family.  There is no end in sight as to when this heart-wrenching pain will turn into a normal daily occurrence.  When we lost Lolo in 2007, I admit to be irreparably broken, but now… Tatay….

I can’t even imagine how I look like.  How we all look like.  Or if we’ll ever look the same.  If we’ll even think of trying to be the within the vicinity of thinking of being the same people.  Some things are irreversible and some things stay that way.

Although it follows the natural order of things, the shock doesn’t come any softer, any gentler of a blow to the face.  Breakfast is awful; I don’t know how we all manage to weave in and out of our kitchen.  My mother may be the light of our home, but my father is the walls.  The floors.  The ceilings.  He is everything.

Or was.

Every fiber in my being prays and hopes that he passed knowing how much we love him.  Because there was never a day in our lives we didn’t feel how much he loves us.

Or loved.

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