Monday, January 23, 2017


Not that I saw him all that much much while he was still around. He lived two thousand miles across the broad backbone of the Rockies and the sweep of the plains way up there in Wisconsin. I don't get out that much, what with my teaching schedule, my house building project, my general lethargy. I need more sleep than I used to. But now that he is gone, I find myself wanting to tell him things. Hey Dad, it snowed on the mountain and the big wash down from the house is running. You wouldn't believe the waves. It looks like a chocolate surf break down there. I got an article published in a literacy journal. Nobody really reads that stuff, but it felt good. My life has turned out better than I hoped. This writing thing has not been the most lucrative, but it has given me direction, passion even sometimes. I am slowing down. My aches and stiffness remind me of you and your crutch after the car accident. How are you doing with all that? And I can't think as clearly as I used to. There are times when I am so lost I can barely stand it. Sorry I haven't been better about staying in touch. My boys are grown. They are beautiful young men. You would be proud of them. I am. Are you there, Dad? Are you there? I don't quite know what to do about the heartbreak of missing you. How did you deal with that? Being away from the ones you loved for years at a time? I know I have to get up, get out of bed, put one foot in front of the next, do the work I was put here to do. I want to tell you about it, Dad. I want to tell you about how I keep moving, even when the weight of this feels like it will crush me, will press me so deep into a leaden immobility that I will never rise. I want to tell you. Are you there?

1 comment:

  1. The ache will bend if you keep talking to him. But the loss is part of you now. Find a space for it.