My father passed on October 14, 2020.
I’ve put off writing. Something he himself
loved. My parents were divorced when I was two.
My earliest memories are not good.
I remember the phone call my brother and
I received, which stands as the pivotal
hardship to hamper my father’s talents to the
point of failure. Not that his creativity was a failure.
Rather that his determination to break through
dimmed. I may have been twelve, or so, years old.
My mother answered. She called for Chris and then
held the cordless phone toward us and said, “It’s for you.
It’s your Dad.” Chris looked at me and said, “Uncle Darrell
is dead.” Our uncle had lived with my father and his wife
for roughly 3-years. My father asked him to move out.
Lack of productivity concerning finding
a job and motivation to live well. My father gave his love,
and his home, to his brother long enough, he believed, and
it was time. A few months later Uncle Darrel hung himself
outside a three story building in position for morning traffic.
My father told us that he felt his brother’s soul go through him.
My father, very slowly, stopped trying. His talent landed him
on stage playing guitar with Aerosmith as a very young man.
It’s possible everything seemed so very easy to him with his gifts.
But it wasn’t easy. He had children. Hardship after hardship found
him and somehow I became published multiple times while my
father had not. Yet, he was the master story teller. I can’t tell
stories. I haven’t the ability. But when I sit to write it’s there.
I shut the writing off on purpose. To read is to think and to write
is to feel. Feeling is an easy thing. And while I don’t need permission
to live my life, I feel too much lately to write. Anyway, that’s what I
tell myself as I drink too much and step forward every day toward
a success I never saw coming as I call upon my father more now
Love you, Dad.