For My Father
18:05
Loss sometimes feels like a chess match with the devil, especially when it happens as slowly as it did with my father. You indulge the rivalry and play the game. At some point, your outcomes look better and you believe wholeheartedly that you just might win. It then becomes clear you were played a fool but it is too late to withdraw and so you keep playing. The differentiation between this scenario and reality is that there is no supernatural trickster at play in your mind and you are in fact alone, watching the walls crumble around you and the earth move under your feet. Checkmate.
As dramatic as this sounds, there is much truth to this narrative. Many think losing someone you love is an element of normalcy, something meant to happen. While it is true, no human consciousness has ever outlasted death and our perceptions are limited by our lack of knowledge, when you lose a parent, nothing feels normal about it. When I lost you, I was entirely convinced that I was awake inside of nightmare, one I saw coming and ran away from until I could run no more.
I have spent years, coming to terms with the idea of loss, and how time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. So while it remains important to note that you are not here, it is more important that you be remembered for the beautiful things you left with those of us who are willing to hold on.
I remember the times we would talk about religion, God and philosophy. You taught me to appreciate these things for as long as I remember. You made me fall in love with books, giving me as many old ones and news ones as you could find. You made me appreciate music and taught me my first three chords on the guitar, Em, F and G. You were passionate about art and history, things to this day I remain intrigued by.
You taught me to question everything and to see both sides of the story. You wanted me to be rational and logical. You wanted to be here for us. You wanted to see me be educated and you wanted to see Jeremy grow up. You wanted to love my mom into ripened old age. You wanted me to be a good person. You wanted to write books and to tell stories and to change the world. You wanted to adventure into the unknown and that you did.
You were many things. You were a dreamer, a poet, and an artist, with visions too wild to comprehend and thoughts too massive to contain. You were a craftsman who understood that you were not perfect and did not pretend to be. You made mistakes, lots of them. You made them so I know not to. You were a rebel, defiant against the norm.
Dear dad,
If only you were here right now so that my words would reach your actual ears and not fall away behind the meaningless sentiment. If only what I write, would mean something more than words on paper, behind a glass screen of binary code. If only I had the chance. But my luck was never that good, nor my timing the best, so here we are, years later and much too late to hold any value.
You were the very best you could be. I know that. I've always known that. Many, however, forget in their weak moments and more so when life goes on and your absence becomes one with their daily rituals. It may be as if you never existed. But there are still few of us who will never forget. I will never forget.
.
love,
Your Daughter
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