two years

Two years since I've written here. Hell, I lost the address and had to ask M to help me find it. But it is October 6th, and so of course, here I am again. I suppose I will always be here on this day, forever and ever until my fingers can't type anymore. This year is different though. This year they are both gone. Actually, to be fair - they are all gone. All three of them. Little brother is in Florida, about as far away as he can be - except for when he moves to Africa for months at a time to work - then I guess that will actually be as far away as he can be. So really it is just me here left to tell our stories, because it's not like he's talking anyway. I do wonder if April 23, 2013 will be ingrained in my soul the same way October 6, 1977 is. So far it is. I love my work, but I cannot walk into the studio without knowing that this is the spot I stood when I became an orphan. I was turning a pirouette when my dad took his last breath. I actually said to my students "The doctors called - they call a lot. I don't mean to be crass, but I can't leave every time they call. I'd never be here." I couldn't have driven fast enough anyway. I couldn't have flown, or even teleported that quickly. Six minutes. That was all it took between the first call and the second. He had six minutes to live and I kept teaching. I hate that I did that. A box full of what used to be my daddy is sitting on my mantle - not because I need to keep him there, but because I have been waiting for Gram and little brother. Waiting so I don't have to bury him alone. But Gram can't travel, and Little Brother travels too much. So maybe it will be just me, and maybe that is how the story ends, with only one of us being OK. But I am pretty sure that's not how it was supposed to happen.