Selling the house

Today, my dad sold his house and bought a condo. And, though I know the proper etiquette is to be happy for me, and while I tried to summon the proper etiquette to do so, I could not. I went numb, then silent, then -- because a sob had taken up lodging in my throat -- I screeched out, "Can I call you back?"

I do not know why I am so sad, but I am terribly sad about this. My dad? In a condo? Not in a house? That house? With its front porch and back deck? With it's dining room bench and antique pie safe? Its pinks and turquoise palette? Its cookie jar? The doorknob where mom would hang her purse?

My brother is happy. He says that living in a condo will give Dad a greater chance for social interactions. That dad could meet a neighbor in the elevator and forge a new friendship. Maybe that will happen. Maybe that's what Dad wants to happen. I do not know. Mark, with his family of six, does not know "one." He's less sentimental than I am, that's for sure. I doubt that he will shed one tear over this.

But I sit here, even now, crying again, over my father's decision.

This feels like my mother's death is now official for some reason. Or that dad's death, though years and years away, is impending. This feel like an unmooring of sorts.

I know I should not feel this way. I know that I should not link change to time, and time to death, but I do.

Tonight, it is all rolling into one.