My father died one month ago today.
Stories about his death - about my experience of it - are tumbling around inside me, like rocks in a polishing kit. They're almost smooth enough to be taken out, touched, shared, and then placed in my pocket.
There's a lot to tell. A lot I want to process aloud, here, and then put to rest. It's daunting to try and decide when and where to start. But I'm desperate to do it, and have been for some time. Desperate just to write anything, really. Life didn't pause when my blogging did, and I have many things to say.
But today is my 37th birthday, and as a gift to me, I'll let myself off the hook of tackling the enormity of catching up on the past six weeks.
Today I'll just say, he's one month gone.