If I had it in me, I'd have called you tonight, but I didn't. I didn't call because I'm tired, and I guess I'm a coward, and I know you'd have been crying on the phone. While all the grief books and online grief literature I've read, with all their nice platitudes and generalizations, have told me that this is OK for us to cry to one another, I can't handle it very well I guess, because I really just want you to not have nights like these.
If I had it in me, I'd tell you that I miss Mom too, and that I cry every day. It's typically for silly reasons too, like that I can't ask her if it's normal for a cut on my foot to still hurt a week later, or that a new season of "True Blood" has started up without her, and that "Lost" ended without her, and that I don't really know what are the best flowers to plant in a north-facing garden.
If I had it in me, Dad, I'd have told you that I totally understand why even though you think these Sunday family dinners are a great idea, that they can still be a great big bummer. So really, I'm not mad that you couldn't stomach the stupid fruit crisp I made. I just wish things were a lot different.
If I had it in me, I'd come over and sort out that chest freezer down the basement, but I can't. You see, it's filled with perfectly organized, labelled, dated meat (first wrapped in plastic, and then in foil to defeat freezer burn). But, I'm a coward and can't bear to see stacks and stacks and stacks of silver parcels with that familiar hand writing.
As for redecorating your bedroom--it's hard, but I'm working on it. We'll make it a nice, new-feeling place for you to sleep.
So, in conclusion, Dad, I hope you can get some rest tonight, and nevermind about all this. I'll see you for coffee in the morning.