. . .

This is a familiar story about life. This is not about exceptional talents or passions, for I believe one can find that in almost everyone, myself included. Instead, this is about exceptional difficulties or ridiculous challenges, such as a father’s death. But, perhaps none of this matters; nothing as simple as death should matter. After all, it is as apparent as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.


Father, you are such a distant memory. Yet, nothing can solace the profound heartache of my forgetting you, often. And if often is not enough, then what absolute time can I offer. -It is not your long life I celebrate, but the death of you that raises new possibilities. Such as, a child’s soft face or the flower’s occasion in a winter’s reprieve.

And, now, I know what it is to feel alone. And I know what it is to think of you, alone. -Are soft faces or open flowers keeping you busy . . .

And, are there ever times when you forget me, often?