whither time?

Or, more precisely, whither my sense of time?

It's been eight months since my father died. But that quantification is my only sense of chronology between February 2 and October 2. I just read some of my posts from that period and none of them seem right. They all seem out of order. The written details conjure memories of the events I narrated. But the timing is off. Surely I didn't live those days between the death of my father and now. Surely I experienced those events before my father died. How could I possibly have experienced, felt, thought, written, you name it, anything since my father died?

I read the posts and I remember. But I don't remember. Not properly. Alongside my memories is an equally forceful dysfunctional ticking clock that tells me that my memories are a sham. That clock tells me that I somehow "went on" after the death of my father. That I re-entered my world of teaching and researching and writing. It's that twisted clock, the other voice, that equally forceful presence, that reverberates loudest in my head right now.

My time and memories aren't right.

I haven't gone on.

I'm still here.

And my father is only now gone. Over and over. He's only now gone.