Before I was a member of the Dead Dad Club, I opened a one-woman chapter of the Dead Brother Club in the city where he is always supposed to love you back. Now I got membership cards spilling from my pockets, tripping me up and buffering my falls.
Club has burdens. You can’t bring it up, if you’re young; people get
far too uncomfortable and sad for you. If circumstances force you to
tell someone about the death, you must immediately be reassuring about
just how fine and over it you are. You must act like the death wasn’t
tragic. You must act like your relationship with your father was healthy
and conventional. You must not be visibly annoyed when people cry and
complain and mourn the loss of their grandparents or great-grandparents
or their fucking dogs and cats. You must not speak of the Dead Dad Club
to a non-member. You must not bring someone into the Club if they are
not ready. You must not let membership to the Club visibly taint your
relationships, lest you become a girl with D-word Issues. That is the
worst fate of all."
Eventually, We All Become Members of the Dead Dad Club by Erika Price with beautiful illustration by Kara Y. Frame.
YES YES YES.