Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes. Thanks to Jonathan Larson I know how many minutes there are in a year.
So as I’m writing this it’s now been five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred and sixty minutes since Dad died. It’s odd, to be able to know that. I won’t again, counting in minutes would be silly, it’s back to years and months after this. But it’s a number that fits snuggly into the musical phrase that was designed around it.
I don’t know how I feel about it. My phone is downstairs in my bag, so I’m not sure if anyone’s sent me a message, there’s nothing on Facebook yet, so that clashes with the out pouring of grief from Dad’s friends, some who knew him in person, others who only knew the online persona.
There are birthday wishes to those having a birthday, there are pictures of dogs in wigs, shared links with exasperated comments about what the politicians are doing now; and quietly an anniversary goes by unnoticed by many and quietly held by those that care. And I think that’s as it should be.
I know some find comfort in doing so, but I don’t want to write a note on his FB wall, change profile pictures around for a day. Dad knew I loved him. That’s enough really.
I’m going to take a ginger cake to take to visit his family on Saturday.
(I do recognise that writing on here is sort of the same thing, but I started the blog before he died and I will continue it.)