I know how I am, said the rock, as it listened to the sun every day. The moon too had words. The rain, the wind, the time. I know who I am. Said the rock. As it slowly slid toward the stream. The water waiting to engulf and drown the visions of tomorrow from a wayward version of today. I know who I am, said the rock as it was picked up by a young boy during the middle of the day. It was cloudy, with little much of anything to see in the way of rays, and the boy took the rock inside his home and inside his bedroom and inside his heart and mind. The rock was placed just above the boy’s head. A nook. Of mind and soul. And the rock found the he hadn’t known himself well at all, really. Not at all.
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 than ever.