Letter to my father
September 28, 2015
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Today, I started to write you a letter in invisible black ink. I would start by greeting you and recalling the memory of your spine, bent of course, as distance began to displace us. Empty closets, quiet rooms, these would characterize you. Unfilled and barren, you evacuated our home. It hurt until it hurt no more. Sadness, father, turned into amnesia as time and necessity etched away at your memory. I did not forget you, on purpose. It was merely a mechanism forged from dreams greater than you or I. Greater than your fear of greatness or mine of failure. Your selfishness or my naivety. I didn't mean to stop caring nor was it my intention to cease to acknowledge your abandonment. Truly, and earnestly, I desired to be more broken than I was. This simply was not possible. There was work to be done.
There is so much work to be done.
Work that required the wholeness of my mind, the compaction of my emotions and focus. More focus than you could have ever envisioned you could produce. But well done, you managed to become a spectator to the greatest sporting event that U.S. history has ever known. The event of my defiant adulthood and miraculous upbringing despite a half-handed framework. Sometimes I think we are better off and other times, I simply know that this is the case. I am sorry you chose courage at the worst possible moment. Apologies for your terrible misfortune in walking away from three stars whose light no longer needed your input. I, however, will not apologize for my audacity to shine despite. This, I simply cannot do. I wish you long life and prosperity and hopefully better discernment and decision-making. We are doing fine, but I think you know this. Love.