After something unexpectedly tragic happens, it can be very difficult to find some type of new normal. This is my journey to find that new normal.
Eudaimonia: n. "a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous."
Letters to My Father (12.25.13)
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Dear Dad,
Today feels so incomplete without you. There are no words for this kind of sadness. There is absolutely nothing at all.
These muggy summers have me missing the fresh air of springtime. I miss the budding lilies in your resting place where the softest moss grows in place of tragedy. Sometimes I run out there through the twigs leaving snags in my shirts and my hands feeling their way through brush. I know I get small cuts on my knuckles but it's worth it to talk to you. I miss those days when the house would be quiet enough to hear the hum of the geothermal system you managed to experiment with. You would curse under your breath when you found that the basement had flooded (yet again). I would chuckle silently hearing you come up the stairs in a huff. If you were here I'd ask you if it was alright that I had made all these mistakes in your absence. I would ask you what it is I'm supposed to be looking for. I would ask you for help. Mom called this my love letter to my father. I suppose it is, really. I made my peace long ago not to discuss my pain in full detail with people. I neve...
I know what it feels like to fly. It feels like being held by your arms and being swung around in circles as we are both getting dizzy and giggling like crazy. It feels like I'm six years old again in the backyard at Grandma's house. Caleb is playing baseball outside with our cousins John, Angel and the twins, Tim and James. My hair is bleached by the sun a bright yellow blonde in messy pigtails and my skin is all tanned. Our fort that we built out of the cardboard boxes that the new couches came in is set up with a sign that says "Home Sweet Home, Wecome" instead of "Home Sweet Home, Welcome." "Again, Howie, again!" I laugh and scream with my arms stretched out towards you. You smile back and grab my arms to swing me in circles more and before I know it my legs are off the ground and I'm flying again. I can tell you love Momma and she loves you back. You are growing on me and I'm growing on you too. I can tell you make Momm...
I finally started writing the book about you. Is it strange that it took me back to the beginning of this entire blog? It felt just like the first time I pressed the "publish" button on the introduction post. Perhaps it is because it is a new introduction into this side of me? It's strange to be here, recounting all of this again. First question that pops into my head that my mentor would ask: Does it hurt less? I think my answer would be yes and no. It does hurt less because I've finally began the journey into turning my memories and experiences of you into a book and it will probably feel a lot smoother to write. It doesn't hurt any less because I still have to recount it. It still feels like pressing on a bruise or stepping on a sticker. But it's a change in perspective. I've been told not to put on the editor hat, because I've always been a writer to reread after I finish a chapter. I've been told to just write it out, to write f...
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