I will die with my father’s name.
It will be the last thing I do.
I want to put this line in a story, but the character just isn’t there right now.
The character is me. This is my story.
Dear Father,
It has been five years.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t play the flute with you, for you.
I couldn’t do it because I couldn’t even do that for myself. Playing that instrument, like many things in my life, like most things in my life, was never just for myself.
Doing something for myself would look like becoming completely feral, losing all touch with contacts, with reality, dissolving into the realm of salt air, of poetic philosophy.
So, instead I did everything by the book, for you.
I don’t look like you, except one day when you were sick you asked me to lie down next to you, where you looked down at my hand next to yours, and noticed for the first time that they were the same.
Now, I carry you with buckets of water, with grocery bags, and with my pen.
Dear Sister,
It has been one year.
But it has been many more years since your essence faded away, leaving behind for us an echo of your former self.
I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to unite the two.
You were convinced that there is nothing where you are. I hope your departure defied the void, remade the firmament.
I don’t view the world like you do, except one day I lamented about existence on this prison planet, and you tried to instill the magic of a blade of grass in me.
Now I know that all is sacred, no matter the actions, or the consequence, of a race hellbent on the rubble and the carnage.
I will die with my father’s name.
It will be the last thing I do.
This was hard to write, and share.
This is hard... but wow... your newsletter looks so powerful!