mourning

I've spent the last year and a half mourning the untimely demise of my father.
I've come to realise that even though I mourn his death, the depth of my mourning goes beyond his no longer being:

I mourn because I feel somewhat unattached to the world. As if with his passing, some metaphorical bond to the world has been broken beyond repair.

I mourn because I have been uprooted too soon: Death yanked him away from life, from us. And with his death came the sudden painful clarity, that I one day will also break my son's hearth and that he too might feel, somedays, about to be blown away from earth.

I mourn because there was no meaning to his death, other than the pain it meant to us.

I mourn because in the long run, when those who miss him are gone too, he will be truly dead. And I cannot help to feel at odds with this, even though I know that is the way of Life.

I mourn because I too will  be forgotten, along with my loved ones.

I mourn the futility of our lives.