It’s easy for me to find darkness. All I have to do is look at the news headlines, scroll through social media posts, or listen to the stories my more melancholy friends recount again and again about their lives. But there have been four times when the darkness found me; breaking into my life, ransacking my heart, and leaving me to sweep the mess under a rug.
The first time was before I was born. It was two days after Christmas Eve in 1962. The Christmas tree in my father’s starter home was still standing, though now bereft of gifts. My father’s wife, Frances, had her two infant daughters in hand when she opened the front door that morning. It was going to be a big day. She would drive her daughters to their grandparent's house, more than 4 hours away, and then head to the dental office where she was scheduled to have two wisdom teeth removed. She made it to the grandparents. She made it to the dentist. She made it through check-in and the two extractions; no problem. In post-op, she was looking forward to the future, telling the nurse about a shopping trip she’d planned with her mother-in-law once she was back on her feet again. The nurse left for a few minutes as she continued her recovery. But sometime before her return, Frances died.
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