13 hours have passed. For 13 hours, the way I have to form some sentences has changed. I can no longer say my father is at home. I can't even say I'm going out to dinner with my dad anymore.
Also, I can't even say I call my dad anymore. This is not so accurate. Yes, I can call him. His phone is still on. It is not turned off, but it is not the father who picks up the phone.
Even the tenses of the verbs have changed since 13 hours. Yes, I can't use the verb is anymore. Now I have to use the verb was. Here's the thing, I can no longer say, "My father is a good man." Yes, I have to use the verb was. My father was a good man.
Whenever people told me that they had lost their father, I started asking them for details. Details like how it happened, were you there. And to be honest, when they answered, they had a kind of anger. It seemed senseless to me, that anger.
Now I understand why. Yes, now that 13 hours have passed since my father's death, I understand. Anger comes from fatigue. From the fatigue of acceptance. To accept that the father has been dead for 13 hours. And if my father was alive, I wouldn't know that it would be 13 hours. Actually, it should be more than 13 hours.
I don't know exactly, but even this thought process took minutes and it must be more than 13 hours. And who would have thought of father's hours once? Neither my brother nor I know how many minutes it took him to get ready for work, and how many minutes it took him to eat lunch. How difficult acceptance is.
And, even now I don't know how long it took my father to eat dinner. His death changed everything. The word death changed everything. Tomorrow will be the day of the funeral, then a week, a year, and so on. And when I have my own children, I will tell them that it has been so many years since your grandfather, whom you did not know, is no longer alive. Father's death is also measuring time. Now it must have been 13 hours and maybe 20 minutes since my father's death.
