Shawna and Emmy are asleep, Graem is frying her brain on SpongeBob, Dennis is on his computer. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m in legal limbo, since we can’t get our hands on my dad’s death certificates, plus it’s a holiday anyway.

We already went out for a little walk and grocery shopping. It was nice to get out, it’s getting a little stifling in here. I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, but every time I try to start organizing something, I can’t really move forward or finish. I can’t really nap, I’ve eaten as much as I can.

So here I am. Every now and then thoughts of my dad pop into my head. I dreamt about him last night, I saw him in his scrubs, smiling and happy, and healthy. I told him I loved him, and that was about it. I feel like he’s here at times, since I’ve been here a number of times when he’s been in the hospital–it’s like he’s just there, but he’s here. So often he’d be resting upstairs, and the rest of us would just be hanging out talking and eating. Waiting for the fleeting moments when he’d have enough energy to hang out with us. Or we would just head to his bedroom to chat.

I can’t believe he’s gone, it’s like a dream. Being around his stuff is like being around him. Trying to organize it, you can start to categorize his life, imagining how he saw himself as a reflection of his belongings. This overabundance of expensive shoes, cameras, tools, art supplies. Seeing his cameras in particular has been emotional. I remember being around my dad and his cameras ever since I was a baby. I’d “play cameras” with him–he just loved to tinker with them all, and he’d let me hold them and play with them along with him.

That’s the thing about all his collections of stuff, none of it is precious or archival. He loved to hold them use them, actually interact with his things. No white gloves for my dad, a collection is of no use if you can’t touch it. That being said, it’s not like he ever really used his tools. He had piles of toolboxes, each of them labeled: “wrenches,” “hot glue,” “rachets,” “solder,” “rivets,” and “special tools.” But then he’d taken them all out, as if to play, and he displayed them all in his garage, in order, to show that he’d collected every one there was out there. Gala would tell us about how he’d sit there, and just look at them, admire them.

I guess if I were at home, I’d be cooking or something. But I really don’t care right now, can’t think of it. I’m not sure what else to do.