D-notice

Letters pouring out, by Richard J. Evans

Were I a country, I would know better than to broadcast these news, for my own good. Why provide the world with a map of your weak spots when all your defenses are crumbling?

Too many Ds lately, so many Ds that crass jokes about bra cup sizes would have seemed obscene, misplaced.

D is for death: no matter how prepared we are for this, we'll never be ready. My grandmother is dying.

D is for dignity, diapers and DNR: with cracks in his voice, my father clings on to hope that isn't there. She spends her days looking out of the window at the sky, he says. 

D is for departure: the near future holds many airports, too many airports.

D is for distance: an inevitable - albeit temporary - consequence of the above.

D is for demons: manufactured by a mind still haunted by its own extraneousness.

D is for darkness: that which smothers my father's heart and hangs over my head in cloud format even though my heart is sunnier than ever. 

D is for doubt: whether I could write a eulogy is something I have never had to consider before.

D is for daughter: a role I still don't know how to assume.

D is for daft: "Logically speaking, you're next!" my uncle told my father over dinner last week, remarking he was the eldest and thus most likely to pop his clogs after Gran does.

Because humor is a family heirloom, at least on my father's side.