12 years ago today, my father passed away. It’s so weird how significant calendar dates still stir up the same state of mourning.
I was 24, he was 49. It shouldn’t have happened.
I miss him, and feel his loss every day. But I also feel his legacy in many of my thoughts throughout each day.
Dad, if you are out there somewhere, thank you for being such a good daddy. I will always miss you.
Remember the other day when I told you that I would give anything to go back in time to when the only thing that mattered to me was to lie next to you in bed, and hold you in my arms? Well, I’ve been thinking. I was wrong. That is still the only thing that really, really matters to me.
My darling. My sweet love. I have known you a while. There have been years between us, months on end in which we lived on different continents, and long periods of estrangement. But, even after all of the hard things that we have said and done to one another – sometimes on purpose, but most times, by accident – even with all of that. It is still February 2009 in my heart. It is still exactly like it was 5 years ago, when I would give every moment of my long, undefined future, just to hold you one more second.
You are my darling, sweet love. You are the one who makes me want to be better, kinder, stronger, more generous, more gracious, less afraid, more alive, and more grateful.
I love you. You are so very beautiful to me.
On November 27, I’ll finally be home. Moving back to the edge of the Earth, by the salt marshes of the steely winter Atlantic Ocean. My beloved harbor. How I have longed to feel the tangles in my hair that are woven by the salty air, whipping my face in the moody, dark season. My seascape! You look like the art from “Where the Wild Things Are”! Dreamlike, timeless, my resonant sky-capped prism. You are a visual thing but you vibrate like a thousand cellos – all played in symphony and with deep yearning.
Oh, how my heart and soul rejoice in your brackish, coarse embrace. I have wholly missed you, my darling sea.
Go for a run after a long day of frustrating work. After about 20 minutes, turn the corner to see the bright yellow-orange sunset as “Ave Maria” by Pavarotti unexpectedly turns up on your playlist.
I dreamed that God was a golden eagle as big as the unimaginable infinity of spacetime, and that I was a single electron in a carbon atom of his feathers – myself an entire universe of magnificence and divine creation. God was flying faster than the speed of light, flying away from his own dreams and desires; his own hopes and prayers. And in this dream I knew that I did not know who or what I was in relation to God. All I could sense was a power, a current switching from on to off to on again, a manifestation like electricity but which I could not name, and I was happy to be a part of what could only be described as deep, unending mystery.
I stood in the falling snow. It was December, before the Arab Spring.
Barely noticeable in the throng of people, I lingered, watching several 20-something Russian girls canvass the crowd asking for money. In the shadow of Notre Dame, tourists from all over the world were taking photos of one another, smiling, ignoring the sting of the bitter winter wind.