It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
I drive by this cemetery once a week. For nearly two years I’ve been telling myself to stop and take a photo. I found myself pulling over and getting out of my truck on the anniversary of my Father’s death. It was time. The weather was nice. Leaves were falling and the sun was out. It was slightly damp and I could smell the sweetness of the trees readying for the oncoming winter by shedding their seeds. Some of these seeds will be eaten. Some will nestle into the earth and cover themselves deep enough to live again. Even though my father was buried a few hundred miles from where I stood, I could feel him with me. I believe he knew what I was doing and why I had finally stopped to take this photograph. It’s my belief that to live this life without fear, you must not be afraid of death. I believe that the famous line, The Truth Shall Set You Free, is directly tied to this. I think it’s no coincidence that I repeatedly told my father that I will not live in fear, before having realized exactly what that meant to me.