There exists in the world a distinct period of time. You don’t really notice it while you’re in it, it’s more easily recognized after it has passed. In hindsight you will look back at that period and remember the carefree way with which you’d gone about your days. Maybe you’ll look back with regret at how thoroughly engrossed you were with your own life and the time that had passed since you’d last reached out to others. But, while you’re in that period of time, oblivious about what’s to come, things seem ok.
And then you get the call that your dad is missing. Not just missing now, but missing for four days. Now, your answering questions over the phone to the authorities in another country. “When did you last hear from him?” It’s been several weeks, which is normal for us. “Was he in good health?” No. I wouldn’t say he’s been in good health.
And now I wait. Thousands of miles away. With nothing to do but wonder why I didn’t reach out more frequently and if that last email was really the last words I’ll ever hear from my father.
