Chronicling the Days – Doru Lupeanu

Welcome to QWF series ‘Chronicling the Days’, specifically for this strange uneasy time of coronavirus and pandemic, of social distancing and self isolation, of lockdown and quarantine.

In April 2020, we invited writers in Quebec to submit a story – of a single day at this time, because while we’re all living through this time, we know that we’re not all living through it in the same way. To stay connected – to know how we’re getting on. Every story valid.

Submissions have now closed for the series but we’ll be continuing to publish the pieces throughout May. Keep an eye for them here, or join us on the QWF FB Community page, and let the authors know if their words resonated.

This piece is by Doru Lupeanu, writing in April 2020.

Image: Doru Lupeanu

My father died.

I wish I were capable of using metaphors and making this statement sound more like a gut-wrenching feeling, closer to what I feel inside than a three-word phrase that seems to beg for attention and compassion. Yet, I can’t push myself passed the three words.

It’s been more than a month. Forty-six days to be more precise, right at the wake of the lock-down. He died in a different country, close to the rest of my family, from heart failure.

I turned robot-like. I frantically bought a suitcase, a plane ticket and two black shirts, and started packing. The earliest flight would have been the day after. And then it hit me. I would have been stuck in an imposed quarantine for two weeks, unable actually to see anybody. And, at that moment, the robot took a break and made room to a sobbing child that was denied the right to grieve.

Time heals, they say. And I guess, in some respect, it makes any problem live in the past it belongs to. And I left the sobbing aside, and tried to remember him for his life and not for the last moments of it. And I focused on house chores and little distractions to keep my mind busy.

Until today.

I decided to clean my closet, and right in it, a suitcase full of black clothes pushed me back into a mute pain. I’ve been staring at it since; trying to find any type of comfort in the idea that time will push any sufferance in its due past. But all I can think of is…

My father died.

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