All the aches and pains in my body couldn’t stop me from remembering that fateful day, and I had to fight the urge to lash out—at something or someone.

There wasn’t a soldier standing at the door with a folded flag held between clenched hands and a somber expression on his face. There wasn’t a uniformed official to console the grieving widow. Because life isn’t like the movies. I found that out the hard way. I was left in the dark without an official statement. Nothing, but a card. Just a four by six inch piece of cardstock delivered in the mail. It sickened me, seeing ‘Condolences for Your Loss’ written across the front. It’s contents are forever imprinted in my mind.

I remembered making that frantic phone call. My mother had spoken so matter-of-factly, so detached from her words that she may as well have been relaying the weather. She said that Dad had been in an accident. His body had been crushed. I was shocked. It was too unbelievable to process. How could that be? He was an archaeologist. He dug in the ground with toothpicks and toothbrushes and other dental hygiene equipment. What on earth could he have been crushed by, a Tyrannosaurus skull? Do accidents like that even happen? Is it even remotely possible? I remembered thinking, what on earth is this woman blabbering on about?

She was on vacation. My mother was always on vacation, to one place or another. Usually somewhere exotic and luxurious, typically an island paradise. She vacationed whenever Dad wasn’t at home, which was often. Dad worked a lot, but his work was important, and it took him far from home. I understood that, and that it wasn’t his fault. He would be home if he could. He said it often, and I believed him. But according to my mother, “If that man can gallivant around the world, then so can I.” Which left me alone to care for myself. We had servants to make sure I was fed and dressed, but even at an early age, I felt more responsible than that woman. But… surely, even she couldn’t be this coldhearted. She loved her husband, right?

“Mom, what are you talking about?” I said. I tried laughing. It didn’t work. “I-is this a joke?”

It wasn’t a joke.

My mother was upset she had to repeat herself again.

“Shut up...” I whispered. My voice broke. But she kept talking… talking with that damned detachment.

It was a curse that the ringing in my ears didn’t mute the sound of her voice. She used the words ‘mangled’ and ‘unidentifiable’ to describe Dad. It was horrible. His body had spent two weeks in the morgue, unclaimed, until he was disposed of in a communal grave. A twelve-by-twelve foot hole in the ground that Dad shared with other unwanted or unknown persons. I felt sick.

I finally managed to tune her out after she had gone through the grisly details of Dad’s death, and began wondering, “How many other dead white men could there possibly be in South America? I mean, I’d surely recognize a gringo if I saw one. Honestly…”

I stopped listening, but I couldn’t get her words out of my head.

My Dad was dead. He was buried in a mass grave.

My Dad… was buried… in a mass grave.

He was fucking buried in a mass grave!

“Shut up! Just, shut up!” I screamed. The next thing I knew, the phone I was holding hit the wall and shattered. I don’t remember throwing it, but the pieces of it, the shards of glass and bits of circuitry, were all over the floor. I doubt I’ll ever forget the way the light reflected off the pieces. My phone died that day. Maybe that’s why I remember it so clearly, because Dad did too.

It all came flooding back. I remembered everything—the pain, the grief, and the hopelessness I felt when I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could do. It was like I was reliving that day all over again. I screamed.

Echoing the sense of loss that had once overwhelmed me, I reached for the nearest object I could find. My pillow hit the wall, but it didn’t shatter. I stared at it, huffing and angry.

“Ugh!”

I threw the rest of the pillows, no longer restraining myself or caring to appear proper. I worked myself into a frenzy. But I only had so much ammunition. Sighing, I flopped back down on the mattress.

I missed him.

My dad was my world. He was adventurous, strong, and fearless. It was hard to believe he died only two years ago. It seemed like yesterday, we were combing through thrift stores and walking on the beach. I always imagined Dad like a globe-trotting Indiana Jones, wearing dusty khaki pants and a brown leather hat. He told me I was just like him, and one day we would search together. Well, that’s never gonna happen, I thought grimly.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I tried to fill the emptiness in my chest with a hug.

I felt so much grief and sorrow that it was a physical weight I couldn’t bear to shoulder. I wanted to scream, to shout my lungs out until my wails sounded as loud as they were in my head. I wanted the whole world to hear my sorrow and be suffocated by it like I was. I wanted to rage, to lash out, to wound and be wounded, until the world was in as much pain as I was. I wanted to stop feeling and just disappear.

I wanted…

I wanted…

I just wanted my dad back.

“I miss you dad.” I whispered.

I wrapped myself in the warm, soft sheets and tried to forget. I wanted it all to go away, back to the way things were. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. But how was I supposed to do that? The levee holding back my emotions had already failed, and they poured forth like a raging river.

My mother wouldn’t have tolerated her daughter behaving unseemly. Openly expressed emotions weren’t welcome in the Thanos household. But how do you stop missing your dad? I’m not sure I ever figured it out. I cried at first, bawled my eyes out, in fact. It stung. But that wasn’t acceptable behavior. I never did learn how to stop missing my Dad, but I eventually learned to miss him alone.

My mother was selfish, that wasn’t anything new. But apparently, the woman had been fine with letting me believe that my dad was very much alive, instead of at the bottom of a god-forsaken ditch. She had known for weeks. Weeks! And she hadn’t said a word. By the time I got that fucking card, she had been on a bender for days. She left me in the dark, floundering while I waited to hear from Dad.

I couldn’t believe how cold hearted she could be.

I couldn’t forgive her for that.

I still haven’t.

It was a miracle how my parents ever got along when they’re personalities clashed like fire and ice. I had always chalked it up to one of life’s mysteries, just one of those things that we’re not meant to know the answer to, like a riddle wrapped in an enigma and thrown in a black hole.

As I grew older, I realized that maybe that was the reason why Dad was always working. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t want to stay at home either. I craved the freedom that he had. How could I fault him for that? I started to feel the despair recede as I remembered the good times we had. The short trips we would go on. How he taught me to search for things I could sell, things people wanted and would pay good money for. I was amazed at what people donated to thrift stores, and that I could profit from reselling those items online.

I wasn’t a Junker or Thrifter, like other people claimed to be. I was searching, like my dad had taught me. I didn’t buy junk, and I wasn’t interested in being thrifty. I was searching for money. Only, the money took the form of a piece of Pyrex, a hand stitched quilt, or some other vintage item, not exactly the priceless artifacts my dad collected from all over the world, but it worked for me. It was lucrative, reselling, and dad had taught me well. I wondered if he’d be proud of me

I closed my eyes tight. Enough! I had all the reminiscing I could handle for one day, and I hadn’t even made it out of bed. The emotional rollercoaster had me revisiting familiar lows I’ve been trying to avoid. It was time to end the self-indulgent pity party. Dad was dead, and I had to continue what he had taught me. I put on a brave face and summoned the false bravado I wish I felt.

This wasn’t how I envisioned my morning turning out. Devolving into mourning. Hadn’t I done enough of that over the past two years? It’s not what dad would want, I admitted. Fatigue crawled over me at the admission. I was tired, so tired.

Rolling over and burrowing into the covers, I closed my eyes and tried to salvage the rest of my weekend. I planned to spend it in bed, recovering.

The alarm went off. “Uggggghhh!”

Damn, I must have forgotten to turn it off last night. I contemplated getting up for a whole five seconds while I fumbled in the dark, whacking at the annoying sound. The need to go searching grew with each beep. Finally, my hand connected with the beast, and silence rewarded my struggle.

"It's too early."

But the urge to visit the thrift store intensified. The longer I remained in bed the stronger it got, demanding I act. I had learned long ago to heed the compulsion to search, to listen to my intuition. And when I did, I found nice items for resale, typically at a sizable profit. Even though I wanted to spend the day recuperating, I needed to make money more.

"I'm tired." I whined, striking the mattress like an insolent child. Unfortunately, no one was listening, and the urge to go searching was unrelenting, a pounding desire, louder than any alarm clock.

Slowly I rolled over and stretched my arms above my head to relieve the soreness in my shoulders. Maybe I shouldn’t have exercised so hard yesterday, done so many lat pull downs.

“Ok dad, I’m going!”

Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I struggled to stand up. Yep, I did way too many squats and lunges too. My legs threatened to cramp and I shook my head at my stupidity. Getting dressed was a new punishment I hadn’t planned on. I hopped around on one leg massaging out a charlie horse while simultaneously trying to pull on a pair of leggings. It wasn’t attractive. Pushing my body to exhaustion seemed to be a better way of dealing with Dad’s death. Better than drinking myself into a stupor, but I was paying for it all the same. I finished up in the bathroom and downed a few Tylenol for good measure. I hoped to dull the pain enough to be functional. Limping to the door, I called over my shoulder.

“This better be good, Dad. I really needed the rest.”

Only silence answered as I closed the apartment door and walked to my Jeep.