This is a day that I will always remember. Yet, the day is fine for now.
It has been years since The Old Man passed. So much has happened. I have grown some. I’ve moved around quite a bit.
I’ve learned and I’ve changed. I’ve circled back and then stepped forward, only to find the need to circle back again. Once more, I come to an intersection of my life where I need to ground myself with a better sense of belonging.
It would be interesting to see him now. It would be interesting to sit with him and talk. I’d like to tell him what I’ve seen and where I’ve been.
I’d like The Old Man to know about the ins and outs and the unexpected changes that took place in my life, which I think he would probably smile or laugh, as if to say, “I’ve been there a few times myself.”
Life is definitely this way.
It would be interesting to tell my Father about my line of work, which is the same as his line of work – or should I say, what his line of work used to be.
Before he was called home . . .
I am a man now. But I was only a boy then.
This is how he saw me. Young, confused and scared too.
I was a boy on the verge of a new beginning. I can say that at the time of my Old Man’s death, I was emerging from a sickness that grips so many young people.
I was out of trouble. I was away and by away I mean living at a facility that does not need to be mentioned in this entry.
Not at all.
However, for ease and transparency and to allow for a deeper sense of emotional understanding, I was young and troubled and seeking treatment for my troubles.
I was not the good son by any means and stained with stigmas and public shame, as per a newspaper article that came out due to helicopters chasing my through the streets of my town. I was new to so many things. I was afraid. I was uncomfortable. Yet, I was growing so rapidly.
I was improving in so many ways.
I was removed from my environment and shaken from the grips of a social illness and chemical dependency. Better yet, I was removed and placed into a new atmosphere.
I was clean, which is another topic that does not need to be mentioned here. However, I want to keep this in perspective – and yes, I was clean.
I was able to speak clearly. I was not nodding nor was I twitching as a means of some unfortunate or chemical reaction.
I was not sneaky nor was I looking over my shoulder for the next threat and while there were legal ramifications and consequences, at least the trouble I was in was behind me.
I was clean . . .
The Old Man was proud to see this.
I am not young anymore, not by any means.
I have gained a few scars since then.
Some are visible and others are only known to me.
But alas, the scars are still real and some of them are still there.
I am grown and passed the midway section of my life. I am hinting toward plans for retirement.
(That is, if I ever make it there.)
At the same time, each time I envision myself having a conversation with my Father, I see him as I saw him then.
I am young in these visions, equally small, and looking up to him the same as I did when I was a boy.
I have this picture in my mind –
The Old Man and I are sitting in a little rowboat in a lake somewhere.
We are fishing in the quiet spell of a morning when the sun has yet to take its center stage and the lake is misty.
The scene is calm.
I see this little rowboat, which is gray or silvery. As I recall this, I connect to something.
The boat is no different from a small rowboat that we used to have when I was a very little boy.
In fact, this is the same rowboat that sat in the rear corner of the backyard of my childhood home.
I used to sit in this little rowboat for hours.
I’d play pretend.
I’d pretend that I was fishing. I sat there, quietly, holding a little twig as if this were my fishing rod.
I sat for hours.
I was fine to pretend. I was content.
I was wishing and dreaming and imagining the great big ocean.
And me, out there on my vessel, drifting across the face of the ocean, as if to be there, intentionally by fate and home – like a prince of the sea.
I remember this . . .
It was wintertime. I was small. I wore a big, puffy down coat. A blue one, in fact, and I had mittens pulled over my tiny hands.
I had one of my special hats which was knitted by my Grandmother down in Florida.
The little hat was pulled down over my ears – and as cold as it was, I was fine to sit in this little boat and pretend.
I could have sat there for days and been equally fine.
Perhaps I never placed this together before now. Perhaps this boat is more symbolic than I realized.
My vision of The Old Man and myself is of us in the same boat from my early youth.
I envision The Old Man and I sitting in the little aluminum rowboat, drifting across the top of a lake.
The surface of the water is flat, and the moment is hushed by the soft and sweet sentiments that comes from the heart of my inner-child.
By the way, I am not soft nor weak nor unable to defend myself yet, as I explain this – I am humble and modest and undressed of any armor.
I am not tough.
No, not by any means.
I am capable and I have an appearance. However, I am opening up and revealing this as the truest or most vulnerable part of me.
This is a side which no one sees
(except for you).
I see us, sitting in this little rowboat.
We are fishing like father and son.
I envision you watching us as a witness from the shoreline.
I am fine to see this; as if this vision were enough to fill that empty void which takes place when a loved one dies or passes away.
It is beautiful, to say the least.
It is heartwarming, to say this more accurately.
This is a picture in my thoughts to create a moment to reflect.
This is a symbol and a meaningful one at that.
But more, this is a picture in my head which has been drawn by my heart and colored by the love for my Father.
That’s what this is.
Here . . .
I give this to you with both hands extended.
Can you see it?
I can say that nothing prepares anyone for the end of someone’s life.
Even if we know the end is coming. Or if the end is a surprise; still, there is no true preparation.
I agree with the notion that a void opens in our hearts when death happens or when someone we love is gone from the earth.
I say from the earth but at the same time, no one is ever gone.
Not from the heart. Not my Father. Not my Mother or anyone else.
I have this part of me which is small and young and pure – like the little rowboat I was telling you about.
This is very real.
I have this vision of The Old Man and myself sitting in a little rowboat, fishing on a lake which, by the way, I think the lake is one that I saw in my youth, which to me was a long, long time ago.
It is not something that can be filled – the void, I mean.
However, it is memories and ideas and thoughts and these pictures which I have in my mind.
These are the only fillers that can satisfy that void.
I think of you.
I think of your losses too.
I think about the empty spaces in the chairs of family functions.
I think of the unfillable vacancy that takes place when the soul of someone you love vanishes from the flesh.
My prayer is simple and my wish is this –
My hope for you is as follows:
There is a little rowboat or something similar in your life and my hope is that your mind will allow you to create a vision, which is like mine, peaceful, hopeful, pure and heartwarming.
I admit it . . .
I am not tough.
(not when it comes to you.)
But this is why you are the best thing that I have ever found in my life –
better than finding money in my pocket
better than finding an old or special song on the radio, which randomly comes out of nowhere,
better than finding a shell on the beach, as if to be proof that the moon does shine high over Miami
and even better than finding the answer to all of my prayers –
you are the best find of my life.
That’s what this journal is all about.
This is about the things we find in life which make us happy.
And whether I am here or elsewhere –
You are the most special thing in my life.
To me, that’s all that I need.
There’s nothing else to find – except maybe a shell on the beach.
But for now – I will close.
Three more chapters and we can close this journal.
Then again, of course, this journal closes, another one begins.
And so on . . .
The Written Addiction 