Some things are lost in an instant —
like the green flash at sunset,
like a crystal glass meeting a tiled floor,
like my laptop (which one minute was in my dining room and the next was in a stranger’s arms halfway down the street).

Other things are lost over time —
a slow seeping away,
so that one never quite knows exactly when what was lost was actually lost.

 

I was the firstborn of four girls, a big disappointment to my father who had grown up an only child and was looking for a compatriot.
As Mom refused to further populate the world, Dad settled on me as his partner in crime.
I don’t have many actual memories of those early years, but the photos are precious and well-worn.

There we are watching a ballgame on TV, feet propped up on the ottoman, hands behind our heads.
There I am sitting on his lap, helping him choose cards to play in cribbage.
There he lies, sprawled out on the couch, waiting for his sidekick to deliver his beer.

I lost my dad, slowly, insidiously to an alcohol addiction.
There was a time when we were best buddies.  He held my hand, my heart, my homage.
And there was a time when I looked into his eyes and wondered who this strange man was.
Somewhere along the way I lost him. The man who was my dad had trickled away, weary drop by weary drop.
And then one melancholy day I realised that he was gone.

 

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Today’s assignment:  Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.  The twist: Make today’s post the first in a three-post series.

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