When my darling daddy died I was in deepest darkest Borneo, with the wild man.
My passport was in the immigration office waiting a visa, and the next day was a public holiday. First thing the day after I went to ask for it back, with or without said visa. It cost me some whiskey, an Australian tea towel, and some dollars – I can’t remember how many.
It took a couple of days through two countries to get home. There were no direct flights in those days. My flight into Australia was diverted to Melbourne, due to fog, and an announcement told us that we would be put on planes to Sydney much later in the day. I quickly told the nearest attendant that I’d need to get the earliest flight possible as my father’s funeral was that afternoon. She directed me to speak to another staff member who did the same who did the same who did the same and I held it together until the fifth telling. Was it the tragic tale itself or the sight of the crumpled skinny 20 yr old in front of her? – that ground staffer lept into compassion and help.
I don’t even remember getting from one flight to another but two increasingly smaller planes later I was in country NSW and being driven straight to the crematorium.
Still in shock.
And grieving still.
Grief’s like that you know.