I Blossom and Die

“I blossom and die” – leave it to Coldplay to find the perfect words to describe how I feel. Dad, I blossom at the thought of the amazing life that you’ve lived and the legacy that you left behind.

But then I die in the moments where I’m comforting Kai, moments where he’s caught off guard by the reality of you not being here.That fragility of emotion and need for security.  That sobering feeling that forever tags along in the ventricles of your heart.

“I blossom and die” in the many moments where stories are shared, stories that you would have been the first to hear. Knowing that I will always take second place because you are and will always be his first love – and hero, and rightfully so.  The legend of my child’s life.

It is in the strange conversations where we find you. Conversations about magic and how we believe in the kind of magic that you cannot see, but only feel. The kind of magic where you know that someone is dead, but yet they’re here. This, the kind of magic that you’ve left beind, like a halo, constantly there – sparkling memories of the life we shared.

Dad, I “blossom and die” when mom speaks about how she still finds herself, four months later, being comforted by, or, comforting strangers in the street. People who knew you and only recently found out of your death. The moments where tears are held back on account of another. Trapped in a world where each day starts as if it is the first day of life without you. The loop of grief.

Then, the guilt. The guilt of just accepting that this is life. People live. People die. The guilt of having the ability to process your life, your illness and death in a way that does not linger on stages of grief. A way that can happen in the blink of an eye.

I blossom because I know who I am, and I die because others do not understand who I am. I am autistic, my neurodiversity had never been masked as much, at home, as I’ve had to during your short illness and the weeks that followed.

For the first time in many years, I felt alone.  Alone, because throughout your illness and in the wake of your death, I was surrounded by people who had expectations.  Expectations that left no space for me.

I blossomed for you, I blossomed for mom, and I died for me.

12 Days Later . . . Pancreatic Cancer


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