Two days after the funeral, I’m on the flight home from Britain, where my dad had lived for ten years. I feel ready and not ready. Detached from everyday life. Hollow like a comedy. There’s so much to do at home, but I’m more ready to move away than I ever was, and I’m ready for a new city. I’m so stunned; yet also a little less stunned than I would have expected. I’m slightly numb; I’m afraid of the return of feelings.
My dad, whose health problems had been mounting, had said several times that year that he might not live long. At first I told him to shut up, and later I had told him the truth: “I’m not ready.”
“I don’t want to go, Eli,” he had said.