It’s 1974 and I’m standing in your shadow on the front steps of the public library. I am holding your hand smiling up at you, a halo of sunlight around your James Dean look alike face, Marlboro cigarette balanced on the lower lip. You are the best Dad. I am the happiest Daddy’s girl. Your eyes, Swashbuckler blue from the deepest ocean, are set only on me. This is our weekly visit to the local library where you let me browse the stacks for hours. I can check out any book I want, no limitations. Today my head is buried in Madeleine L’Engle, pages smelling like Autumn. I am 8.
In 1976 after days of begging, you give in and buy Watership Down by Richard Adams in paperback. You write a dedication on the inside flap “With Love, Dad – May 1976” before handing it to me. I’ve read this book so many times it’s held together by a rubber band. It sits on my bookshelf. It is the first thing I would grab in a fire.
It’s 1979 and I was crowned Queen at my junior high school dance.
I bucked the trend of dresses and lace to wear a tight-legged white silk pantsuit with silver sandals and a silver belt. The hired DJ is ancient. He whispers things in my ear until my face matches the color of radishes. I am used to the attention of strange men that sound like basements and smell of Old Spice. At home, Mom snaps a picture of you and I together. I stand warm and safe with my bundle of roses, your arms around me, your smile the width of a universe.
That summer you take us to Yosemite Valley. All I want to do is hike, float down the Merced in a black inner tube, swing off the tree rope into deep water where the river curves into Devils Elbow. You find the perfect walking stick for me. When we get home you sand the stick smooth, carve Yosemite 1979 into its side and varnish it with a thick coat of shellac.
I am 13 years old.
It’s 1981 and after 20+ years at a global Aerospace job you resign. You have designed the walls of your last Apollo spacecraft. The Space Shuttle will not explode in space. You have done enough. The fights between you and Mom grow. She screams for an explanation. You tell her only that the government is following you and that your every action is secretly being recorded and filed somewhere in a vault beneath the Earth.
I cannot sleep. At night, I console myself by taking a flashlight and reading under the covers, all those Thank You letters you got from NASA and the astronauts. You have saved the lives of men with courage. Mom is desperate in her pleas for you to see a Doctor. You ignore her. You tinker away in the garage all day, insisting there are new discoveries to be made.
I listen to “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” by Queen 300 times a day. Nobody knows it has an entirely different meaning for me.
It’s 1984 and I get a phone call from a reporter in Las Vegas. “Did you know your Father is in jail accused of conspiracy to cheat at gambling and illegal possession of a firearm?” and “Was your Dad the inventor of the computer that was allegedly used to beat BlackJack tables?” He wants a quote. I tell him I don’t feel well and hang up. I do not speak for two days.
I hear Mom and other relatives whispering in low tones from the living room at night. My sobs are like stinging needles melting poison into my skin. Food suddenly tastes like drops kicked from Heaven and I eat everything as antidote.
I am 16.
Finally, it’s 1986. We get to pick you up at the airport today! The trial is over and you’ve served your time in that Nevada jail hell hole. I have baked a pumpkin pie because I know it’s your favorite even though I have never cooked or read a single recipe. There are chunks of nutmeg the size of peas in it. It is July, but I have placed a ceramic Christmas tree on a pedestal table in the living room that lights up when you plug it in. There are presents wrapped in shiny red and green paper, a leather belt, an Elvis record and a new wallet. You have never missed Thanksgiving or Christmas with us. I look around the house…everything must be perfect.
At the airport, we hug and you smell the hair at the top of my head as if I were your firstborn baby all over. I feel your bones. You look gaunt and the speech stutter you’ve had since you were 8 years old is more severe. Your eyes are still blue, but no longer those of a Swashbuckler. I look up into your face, beaming…and tell you of my Pumpkin pie.
I am 19 years old and none of my clothes fit anymore.
In 1994 you live in a dank one-bedroom apartment in a seedy part of town. You and Mom divorced long ago, sold the house we grew up in. You drink every night and tell me long stories of the government agents who are after you. You concoct brilliant ways to thwart them, begging for my assistance. I am the “only” one you trust. You say this often. I spend every hour of every day concentrating on top of the Dad tightrope…keep you safe, get you help, keep your love, keep you safe, get you help, keep your love. You embed your trust into an anvil and tie it to my guts.
I concoct brilliant ways to get you to a Doctor. Afterwards, you tell me in a hard low voice that he is one of them , that the pills will plant a tracking device in your stomach. You refuse to take them. I know that to force you will incur your hate. This, of anything, I cannot bear.
I am 24 years old. I tear off, chew and swallow every sweet drop of food that falls from the sky until the expanded space between my skin and my bones is numb.
numb.
numb
By 1997 you live in a trailer, unable to keep a job. Your teeth are rotting in your jawbone. I visit often to make sure you bathe, do your grocery shopping, watch a baseball game on TV with you (make sure you’re still alive). Today I insist on taking you to Dennys for something to eat. You agree, but there is mischief in your voice and a wildness in your eyes. You take a paperback novel, easily over 900 pages, from the kitchen counter and cut a miniscule section from a random page with a small pair of scissors. The piece is no more than centimeters tall and a couple inches wide. I can tell the book is old because closed the pages outer edges are red and the font size so tiny it’s nearly unreadable. You open a cupboard and place the book on a shelf. Outside, you turn to lock the door behind us and tape that slip of text across the door and the doorframe. You look at me.
I say nothing, because there is nothing to say. I know what this is.
When we arrive back home you gingerly remove the piece of paper from the door, take the book down from the cupboard and open it to the page with the missing section. And like the last piece of the worlds largest jigsaw puzzle, it fits perfectly. You smile at me, because you know that this time, at least, nobody has trespassed. I let your expression pool inside me like a once dried-up puddle in a vast meadow that catches rain. I will take this tiny miracle. I will take anything.
In 1998 I came to visit you on my birthday. You won’t answer the door.
I let myself in only to find you sitting alone in the dark, rocking back-n-forth in your easy chair. I turn a light on. There is a loaded gun on the kitchen counter. I point to it, hands shaking. What is that for? You tell me they are no longer trying to break-in at night, NOW they are trying in the daylight as well. How do you know Dad, how do you know that?? Because I can hear them, you say, and the next time I hear them I’m going to blow their fucking heads off. Dad, what if you heard something and it turned out to be just the mailman!? (I do not say what I am really thinking…Daddy, what if its me coming to visit, I’m the only one that does. Daddy, please, please don’t shoot me)
I am 31 years old today.
Disneyland uses the law of Eminent Domain to tear down your mobile home park and build a theater entertainment center. You get $23,000 for the trailer. You make us move your every possession into a storage unit. You keep with you the clothes on your back, your hand-rolled cigarettes, the 23K in cash and one small hard-sided suitcase from 1957. Your plan is to get on a train to wherever and vanish like a wavering mirage at the edge of civilization. The government cannot find you this way, you insist. You are hacking up brownish red fluid into your handkerchief when another small miracle occurs…you agree to come stay with me at my apartment until you are well.
You are 58 years old.
Over the weeks you disappear several times, leaving a note indicating that while you love me you will likely never see me again. These choice words written in your stark flourish with blue ink eviscerate me. I sob so hard I crack a rib. The world is utterly useless, doctors, lawyers, family…just words on a page. Nothing changes. There is only descent.
In 1999 I eventually, somehow, manage to shower and clothe myself.
I come home from work and there you are, sitting on my patio smoking a cigarette. Your face is full of age, hair mostly gray with blue eyes, lids hanging in loose flaps, that no longer reflect the depth of oceans. You try to smile and say something when you notice, for once, the look on my face. There is no small miracle to count here. I run to my bedroom and slam the door behind me, anger blossoming out of my stomach in waves. I do not come out until morning.
I make us pancakes for breakfast and you tell me in a small voice that you think, perhaps, its time to go visit Grandma in Minnesota. I put you on a plane the next day.
You never come back.
It’s Y2K, known as the year 2000. You have had a stroke and can’t get out of the bathtub. The police are called because you locked the entire world out by wrapping a length of heavy gauge chain across your front door from the inside.
You live full-time in a nursing home now.
In 2002 I fly out for a visit. You still recognize me but it’s difficult to understand what you say at times. You’ve lost most of your teeth. You never mention government agents or refer to…them. I spend time swiping at the drool rolling down your chin with my napkin while showing you pictures of the custom paint job on my Harley. Grandma, who plays piano by ear, does so daily for the elderly here and brings you homemade Swedish meatballs because you haven’t yet been placed on a feeding tube.
You just turned 61.
It’s 2003 and I write letters often describing the details of my life…a business trip to Boston, big Halloween bash that took days to clean-up, how I lost my voice for a week after screaming so loud, for so long and with such joy when the Angels won the World Series. You are on a feeding tube 24/7 and when you aren’t in bed, they put you in a wheelchair where your head rolls to one side. You no longer have the ability to speak. The nurse tells me your eyes shine like blue halogen when she reads my letters to you.
At 3:15 am on February 24, 2004 I got a phone call from the nursing home. You died just three days after your 63rd birthday. I sit on the edge of my bed until dawn slips through the crack between my heart and the floor.
I am a Daddy’s girl, afterall.
I am 37 years old.
Hey Dad, I’m 40 years old now. I wish you could see me. I am beautiful and healthy. Surrounding myself with things of wonder. I have a purple clawfoot tub and walls painted the color of wine and gold. I have a mutt named Piper who loves my lap. I can never have enough books. I read every night until my eyelids burn. If there is anything after this life besides dust, I hope it found you. I haven’t found myself yet but I’m getting damn close. And while I have never, in all these years, been able to write about you, you are the singular reason why my life is filled with the joy of words and books.
You are my story.
You are this page.
You are these words…I love you. Always.
(c) 2008 mstrace
Hey Dad, I'm 40
This is a short-story/open letter of a sort. It marks my first completed attempt at writing about a subject I have struggled with for many years. Thank you Bell for the inspiration. And thanks to those of you who read it, because my Dad always wanted everyone to read.
Dad, this is for you.
deliriousgirl, 2 months ago
Let me just tell you this: I don’t think I’ve ever ever read such a fucking moving piece of fucking work. I’m both sobbing uncontrollably and laughing because you’ve written this for ME to read. I am so very honored and so very flabberghasted at this. HOT DAMN! This is good, and I mean so good. I can only hope that it’s in some way cathartic for you, and I’ll gladly grovel at your feet, you dear dear one!
flower68, 2 months ago
You beautiful beautiful soul.His eyes shone like halogen blue because he knew in his daughter he had been given the gift of an angel.and whatever was inside his head,he always knew THAT to be real.
Watership Down.I was so under the spell of that story as a child.
If I ever come to visit would you make me pumpkin pie and greet me at the door in your white and silver ensemble please and thankyou xo
mstrace in reply to deliriousgirl’s comment, 2 months ago
delirious, that is just about the nicest fucking compliment I have ever received for my writing. And it means more than you know bcuz I was very emotional writing it. You, dearest girl…have made my week. There are not enuf thank you words, so a purest – thank you.
mstrace in reply to flower68’s comment, 2 months ago
flower – I would absolutely do that for you! Thankfully for you the pies don’t have big lumps of nutmeg in them nowadays.
And yes, I’ve read thousands of books in my lifetime. But Watership is my favorite, for obvious reasons. You are the sweetest thing ever and both you and Delirious have NO idea what your comments have meant. I’m a little chokin’ up over here so gotta run…xoxoxox
Roy barry, 2 months ago
Quite simply, the finest piece of written work I have ever read.
Outdoors2, 2 months ago
You embed your trust into an anvil and tie it to my guts.
This is just an amazing chronology. I was welling throughout relating to both of your devotion and admiration. Thank you for sharing such a personal expression of love…
mstrace in reply to Roy barry’s comment, 2 months ago
Roy, you’re a beautiful man – ya know that right? There is nothing else to say to that except I thank you
mstrace in reply to Outdoors2’s comment, 2 months ago
Outdoors, thank you SO much! Its still very new (I wrote it literally, yesterday) so I can’t get through the whole piece without having to stop…but it means a great deal to me that you liked it.
Anne van Alkemade
,
2 months ago
A truly amazing journey and a gift that you have shared.
mstrace in reply to Anne van Alkemade’s comment, 2 months ago
Anne, thank you so much!
Rose Moxon, 2 months ago
that was a wonderfully emotional read. thank you.
Nicole Ryan, 2 months ago
I’m not sure what to say. I feel every bit of this .. I feel like i’m sitting with you and you’re telling me your journey (this bit) .. I have tears in my eyes ~ this is an incredible story. There are parts of you and your dad that I relate to so much with my own dad although he died when he was 40 and I were 13 years old. I know what it’s like to father your father … mental health issues … so difficult for a little girl to watch this in her daddy.
My heart will sing a little for you today .. thank you for writing this and sharing it .. it’s a beautifully evocative and emotive write … just incredible.
Love and light
xx
SoxyFleming, 2 months ago
yes I’m crying too. You have covered 32 years of love…and it’s not going to stop now is it?
mtda, 2 months ago
Extraordinary… What a voice you have, I blinked about a hundred times when I was done reading this because thats how long it took for the world to fall back into place, so submerged was I in your story. Amazing, thank you for sharing.
Mel Brackstone, 2 months ago
He can see you…...
bfrida, 2 months ago
thank you
bfrida, 2 months ago
thank you
WanderingAuthor, 2 months ago
This was an incredibly well-written, moving account of a relationship that must, despite all its joys, have been agony for you. I’ve never been through what you have, but I’ve got my own demons, and I can only hope that writing this brought you some peace. I suspect this relationship will remain, however, a lingering theme in your writing. Some hurts are too deep to go away just because you write about them – this is clearly one. I’m so sorry.
What you need to remember is this: “nurse tells me your eyes shine like blue halogen when she reads my letters”. Despite everything, you loved your father so well that, even then, he knew you loved him, he knew who you were, and he cared. Try to hang on to that memory, that knowledge. And words, books, yes, there is a lot of solace in words and books.
Leno, 2 months ago
My heart felt thanks for sharing such a superbly written and very poignant story. Take care.:)xx
Ushna Sardar, 2 months ago
amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
bellmusker, 2 months ago
Oh babe, I see now how difficult this was for you to write, and I have no doubt that you cried all through it. But look, just look what came out of it! I am beautiful and healthy. I love that you can tell him this, and know deep down in your soul that it is entirely, blessedly true. I understand your father’s demons too well, as you know, and your love and support would have been absolutely invaluable.
I feel privileged that my use of this format in ‘poison’ inspired you….it’s a damn good way to put your heart in order, don’t you think? And you’ve used it to full, wonderful effect. Your dad would approve…and I’m sure he’d be so proud that his love of language has taken full bloom inside you. X
observer, 2 months ago
This is wonderful.
Jessica Tremp, 2 months ago
i’m deeply moved
Selina Jackson, 2 months ago
my god! what an emotional piece. you have a wonderful, marvelous way of taking us with you on that journey those memories.thank you for sharing.
Randy Monteith, 2 months ago
This is a grand piece of writing and you are a true wordsmith!
WOW!!!!
LittleHelen, 2 months ago
Jesus…I have shivers going on all over my body…what an amazingly emotional piece of writing. I want to hug you….good grief I want to hug you. And I want to go hug my Dad.
xxoo
LisaG, 2 months ago
I simply can’t stop crying…............and I mean sobs, sobs and I want to scream and I want to hug you tightly and tell you, my god this is so painful and beautiful….
I saw my parents today – my mother is well my father, who really has never hugged me in my life, is slipping away….
Thank you so much, for having the courage to write this and post it….thank YOU..
Much Care
Lisa
Jaybe, 2 months ago
Incredibly moving and, without doubt, the finest piece of writing I’ve ever read here on the bubble. The magical thing is that every time you walk into a library or a bookshop you are surrounded by your father. This writing is a legacy to your hero – your dad. I wish you well.
Cathie Brooker, 2 months ago
It must have been hard to see your Dad deteroriate like that. It must have been fustrating he wouldn’t see a Doctor about his mental health problems. I hope he rests in peace.
Craig Mowat, 2 months ago
I don’t quite know what to say. You are an amazing person to stay so strong and to keep trying. Thank you for sharing. All the best.
ellamental, 2 months ago
thankx for THE REAL we all need it and by sharing it we all learn about ourselves and how grand this thing called LIFE can be!! thank you so much!!
markgb, 2 months ago
This is absolutely beautiful.
Amazing
theyellowfury, 2 months ago
You’re a beautiful writer. You put a lot of emotion into this and put it well. Somebody did a good job raising you. I’m blown away.
slickjesus, 2 months ago
Lovely, sad, memorable
Natella2020, 2 months ago
Beautiful in every sense of the word. What a life, wow.
mstrace in reply to Rose Moxon’s comment, 2 months ago
Well thank you Rose for taking the time to read it!
mstrace in reply to Nicole Ryan’s comment, 2 months ago
Nicole, I am sooo sorry you lost your Dad when you were at such a vulnerable age. That too must have been incredibly difficult. I can’t thank you enough for reading this and commenting – your words touched me deeply.
mstrace in reply to SoxyFleming’s comment, 2 months ago
soxy…you’re right – the love never stops. Thank you!!
mstrace in reply to mtda’s comment, 2 months ago
mtda – that is wonderful praise…that a reader is transported by my words…most especially these words…I couldn’t ask for more. Thank you!
mstrace in reply to Mel Brackstone’s comment, 2 months ago
ahhh Mel, do you think so? because just the hope alone sustains me. Thank you for reading!
mstrace in reply to bfrida’s comment, 2 months ago
thank YOU for reading bfrida!
mstrace in reply to WanderingAuthor’s comment, 2 months ago
Wandering – I can’t thank you enough for this beautifully written and thoughtful comment. I cried all over again reading it. Yes, writing this offered me a certain kind of release. And if by sharing my story it moves, even in a small way, readers like you, I’m grateful.
mstrace in reply to Leno’s comment, 2 months ago
Leno…and my heart felt thanks right back at you for reading it!
mstrace in reply to Ushna Sardar’s comment, 2 months ago
Thank you Ushna!!
mstrace in reply to bellmusker’s comment, 2 months ago
oh bell…the privilege is all mine. Can’t say my heart isn’t bittersweet at the moment, but I think the sweet stuff will win the war. thank you again, my lovely.
mstrace in reply to observer’s comment, 2 months ago
Thank you observer!
mstrace in reply to LittleHelen’s comment, 2 months ago
LittleHelen, how appropriate that I go out to my front porch just now to grab my mail and there sits a package. Your black heart with flame tears notecards have arrived. I have a double dose of LittleHelen today and it has me smiling. This wonderful comment AND those crazy cool cards!! I am indeed, hugged.
Thank you!
MtnMan, 2 months ago
Your father was very lucky to have you for a daughter, and we are very lucky you shared this here with us. :)
Nicole Ryan, 2 months ago
I thought about this again last night … such a powerful piece (of you) of writing.
When something sits within me like this has ~ I am thankful for having experienced reading it.
Thanx for your comments in return too ~ xx
mstrace in reply to Jessica Tremp’s comment, 2 months ago
That you are moved by my story is a wonderful and unexpected blessing, as I am such an admirer of your work.
mstrace in reply to Selina Jackson’s comment, 2 months ago
thank you so much blondie for those kind words!!
mstrace in reply to Randy Monteith’s comment, 2 months ago
Ah – a wordsmith – I’ve always loved that word…thank you for believing that it applies to me. And thank you for reading my story!
mstrace in reply to LisaG’s comment, 2 months ago
oh damn Lisa, I had to go gather myself a bit before replying to you…
I read your comment and the tears welled up again. There are things I suffered with and without bcuz of his illness, hugging was not one of them. I distinctly remember the way it felt when my Dad hugged me. I’m so very sorry you haven’t had quite the same from yours and that he is…slipping away.
I can’t thank you enough for both reading my story and for your heart-felt comment.
mstrace in reply to Jaybe’s comment, 2 months ago
Jaybe, there is NO finer compliment a writer can get here on RB and I am moved beyond words that you feel this away about a piece with such deep personal meaning to me. And you couldn’t be more right, the smell of books and ANY library will remind me of him, in all the right ways.
mstrace in reply to Cathie Brooker’s comment, 2 months ago
Indeed it was. Thank you for reading my story Cathie.
mstrace in reply to Craig Mowat’s comment, 2 months ago
craig – thank you for that amazing compliment, for reading my story, for posting a comment. Just simply…thank you.
mstrace in reply to ellamental’s comment, 2 months ago
ellamental – yes, when we recognize one another across the spectrum of our personal tragedies and show compassion, we are acknowledging our humanity. As you have just done for me. Thank you.
mstrace in reply to markgb’s comment, 2 months ago
oh my goodness mark – thank you for saying that! Truly.
mstrace in reply to theyellowfury’s comment, 2 months ago
yellowfury – thank you so much. I am very grateful that for many years as a child and young kid I had a brilliant, stable, creative, loving father. And thank you for reading my story.
mstrace in reply to slickjesus’s comment, 2 months ago
thank you so much slick!
mstrace in reply to Natella2020’s comment, 2 months ago
Wow – thank you Natella!
mstrace in reply to MtnMan’s comment, 2 months ago
that is an incredibly great thing to say MtnMan…thank you so much!
Paolo, 2 months ago
To add to the deluge.
I am sure these experiences are common to many, but just today for the first time in my life my Grandfather forgot me: Didn’t know my face, my name or my form. I know they say these things come with age…but it doesn’t make it – fine, okay, acceptable. Thank you for this story…even if it hurts to read it I need to relate to it in order to accept it, to come to accept it…
Thanks again
mstrace in reply to Paolo’s comment, 2 months ago
paolo, I’m truly sorry to hear about your Grandfather. I never had to deal with that myself…someone you love not recognizing you. As bad as my Dad ever was, there was never a lack of recognition. Thank you so much for reading my story, I’m glad I can share with it with people like you.
deliriousgirl, 2 months ago
Hey, girly-girl, I come back here every few days to reread this. I swear to you that this is one story that will forever stick in my brain, you’re so amazing.
mstrace, 2 months ago
delirious, thank you AGAIN for those kind words and your overall wonderfulousness (cheeky grin). If it weren’t for you, the story of my Dad would have languished unread in RB limbo (being a bit too long for most folk here, especially given all the instant gratification available here).
Paul Compton, 2 months ago
Thank you for this absolutely beautiful, heartfelt treasure. Truly gorgeous.
mstrace in reply to Paul Compton’s comment, 2 months ago
Paul, as this story was very very personal to me, I have to thank you for taking the time to read it and for that lovely comment. Thank you. Thank you.
allnaturalphoto, 2 months ago
really great writing, very moving.
mstrace in reply to allnaturalphoto’s comment, 2 months ago
Ame, thank you SO very much for saying that!! Took a peek and just wanted to say I love your photography by the way…
Miri, 2 months ago
this one just bounced between my gut & my heart all the way through, such an enormous depth of feeling, beautifully written. thanks for sharing
suzanne3sg, 2 months ago
I know those eyes all too well…This is a wonderfully written piece of life that makes me smile sadly at the similarities of experience…
mstrace in reply to Miri’s comment, 2 months ago
miri, oh my…that is a strong statement and one I appreciate so, so much. Thank you!
mstrace in reply to suzanne3sg’s comment, 2 months ago
suzanne…oh no, a similar experience? My heart goes out to, truly. As such, a special thank you for taking the time to read this.
Stephanie Caraway, 2 months ago
im speechless
Debbie King, 2 months ago
You had a grip on me from the time I began reading this right up to the last word! My heart goes out to you. And encouragement. You are good. You are a fantastic writer! Reading my words, then reading yours, well… It makes me want to tear up all I have written. There is no comparison. You rule.
Sue Wickham, 2 months ago
Just like everyone else has said – absolutely riveting. This piece transports you to another place, your love, wisdom and compassion knows no bounds. I, too, am speechless.
Suse
mstrace in reply to Stephanie Caraway’s comment, 2 months ago
I hope only in a good way lulu ;> ...thank you for reading!
mstrace in reply to Debbie King’s comment, 2 months ago
Wow – that is a tremendous compliment. And I thank you for it!! However, don’t discount your own writing ability. Everyone has their own “inner voice” and writing style. That you even put pen to paper is mastery in itself, because its often a difficult thing to do.
mstrace in reply to Sue Wickham’s comment, 2 months ago
Suse – I am humbled beyond belief that so many people, including yourself, took the time to read, respond so, and comment on my story. It is a tremendous gift you have given me and I thank you for it!
Shelley Heath, 2 months ago
Thank you for sharing the emotional journey of a daughter’s love for her father… it was a brilliant and moving piece of writing.
mstrace in reply to Shelley Heath’s comment, 2 months ago
Shelley, thank you so much for taking the time to read the story of my Dad – I appreciate it beyond words!
Raindrops, 2 months ago
You made me fall in love with the love and the pain that you felt for and because of your dad
mstrace in reply to Raindrops’s comment, 2 months ago
Raindrops, what an utterly beautiful thing to say. Thank you!
candidenuts, 2 months ago
I think that what I see most here, aside from care that works to overlook decay, – even to staunch it like some kind of wound, – is power, strength that stems from honest experience.
Many writers will take from their lives situations or events, fights or laughter, and rearrange them for art. And perhaps you have taken some of these facts for your brief memoir and embellished them.
But if there be any embellishments, they do not, for once, add beauty where there was none; nor does your orchestration of thought and narration render their truth less valuable.
Isn’t it so, fully so, that we add more depth and meaning to truth with these efforts to catch whole existence? Existence, a common jewel the world over, but still without price.
To say, then, “there is only descent,” and to know it; to say, soon after, “I am a Daddy’s girl, after all,” and to know it – life is a broken gift! But we, who are so foreign to receiving a true gift, will be overwhelmed even by its dysfunction.
Life seems to me to be one of those rare gifts, which has no catch, as long as the pain it presents serves the living.
I hope, along with many others, that you have seen this pain become a message. I believe I have (and so have those many others).
But most of all, I just want you to know that I long for a world that shows beauty alone, not so coupled with tragedy. I long for a world where our parents age but lose no vitality, where our siblings grow but do not distance themselves, where our words rise and work something. I long for the movement to be total and not merely individual. I long for your heart to be fully reconciled to what it has seen; I long for forgiveness to be more than a silly cheesy word. I long for the day when these words show their meanings once and for all:
love
hope
faith
joy
loyalty
compassion
mercy
justice
yes, forgiveness
I pray that it’s sooner coming than the world proves.
Thank you for sharing these things with all these people. I hope you never feel alone.
mstrace in reply to candidenuts’s comment, 2 months ago
candid…I don’t even know how to respond to your brilliant and thoughtful comments above. It was beautiful and rendered me speechless for quite awhile.
You said ”...words that catch the whole of existence…” which is a painfully magnificent thing to say or write. I do believe there is beauty in truth. And perhaps because there isn’t a drop of artifice inside me about the truth of my Dad, his story, our relationship…the fact that at least in this one piece of writing there isn’t a single embellishment…perhaps that is why the words resonate. I was and am too close to his memory, bound too painfully to his existence and how he passed, to step outside the writing enough to judge its measure.
While never always literally alone, I used to feel alone nearly every second of every day. And while I still get horrid lonely sometimes, the periods of hope/faith/joy/compassion as you say, last much longer nowadays.
Anyhow, I just wanted to simply thank you for those comments, for your writing (which is stunning), for your prayer…just – thank you.
rocktart83, 2 months ago
You deserve many more compliments, this is a breath taking piece of literature. Its so crazy how this piece can emotionally move anyone who reads it, you’ve written it with soul, thats why its so strong and powerful. You are a great writer, I really feel for you.
mstrace in reply to rocktart83’s comment, 2 months ago
rocktart (love that profile name by the way), I can’t thank you enough for reading my story. There are no better comments a writer can read about their work then those you’ve posted here. I can’t tell you what it means to me. Thank you SO very much!
journey360, 2 months ago
That was good and very detailed.
jjgmail, about 1 month ago
There was so much resonance, so much I could identify with, that I was shaken and moved. Truth is stranger than fiction, it has been said, but truth is infinitely more powerful, as well. There is power here, in this piece, this baring of the intimate. Thank you so much for trusting enough to share this wondrous journey.
mstrace, about 1 month ago
wow jigmail, what a beautiful comment! Thank you so much. i know its cliche, but it has been a bit cathartic. and even though I have read it 100 times, it still has a lot of power over me and I doubt that will change anytime soon…
Naomi Downie, about 1 month ago
what moved me most was that he always knew you loved him and he always said
he loved you. nothing got in the love of your love for each other. what greater more powerful love is that to shine in lifes darkest hour. thank you…you made me cry and think about my Dad.
mstrace in reply to Naomi Downie’s comment, about 1 month ago
naomi….thank you for that comment and you are indeed welcome. I too cry about him every time I read it…still
reflectorheart, about 1 month ago
What a painfully beautiful and touching story you chose to share here. I will be forty next year and just tonight sat reflecting upon my own life. A short time later I ran across your piece and it brought me to tears ~ obviously held back from earlier and in much need of release.
You have a gorgeous writing style that is simply easy to read. Your story also touched me on many levels. My grandfather worked in the aerospace industry as well, and he was my father figure while growing up. The relationship you had with your dad is the same one I had with my grandfather.
I am sure that your dad would be incredibly proud of you, your accomplishments and your talent as a writer. You convey emotion extremely well and know how to reach your audience. Thank you for a very moving read.
mstrace in reply to reflectorheart’s comment, about 1 month ago
ohmigod reflector, wow…we do have similarities! part of what I’ve found so fascinating here on RB. And I can’t thank you enough for the comments on my writing style, esp. as it relates to short story format (my poetry tending to be way more brutal and…oh lascivious). Its means a lot that someone like you can read and appreciate and even react so to my story, as it was the most personal one I’ve ever told.
ManaMoon, about 1 month ago
keep you safe, get you help, keep your love
You embed your trust into an anvil and tie it to my guts
..... this part summed it up for me.
What a lovely piece and a lovely read!
It captured me from the start and I read it right through which is the sign of a good story
mstrace in reply to ManaMoon’s comment, about 1 month ago
mana, thank you so much…that is precisely what a writer loves to hear!!
artypants, about 1 month ago
I don’t know if anything happens after we turn to dust
but I somehow know that what you wrote here has reached
the person who needed to hear it, and who has heard
your amazing father…...
The Bubble should feel deeply grateful to have such a beautiful talented
writer here, cos I know I am…...WOW I think I need to take a long walk…...
mstrace, about 1 month ago
Thems purdy kindful words there Mister (as she blushes with pleasure).
seriously…I hope, fervently and with a deep ache, that you are right – that these words traveled where they needed to go and were heard.
JTomblinson, about 1 month ago
Was so dumbstruck by this piece, I only just now realized I never favorited it! D’oh!!
beeden, 23 days ago
Wonderful piece of writing, awesomely poignant, heartbreakingly triumphant.
mstrace in reply to beeden’s comment, 23 days ago
beeden…as this is the most personal piece of writing I’ve done on RB, I sincerely thank you for your kind words!
Rebecca MacNau..., 13 days ago
Dear, beautiful girl. What a sad story. You are NOT alone, and from sadness as this, great moments off truth, profound and lasting, derive. Adn art is a cleansing thing. Do it. It will help. I KNOW whereof I speak…..
mstrace in reply to Rebecca MacNaughton’s comment, 13 days ago
THANK you rebecca…weeks later I can honestly look back at this piece and feel…a bit exfoliated. And I’m loving the new skin!
CaptainGraviton, 4 days ago
Remind me never to read any of your stuff again, my cynical heart went soft for a moment there. Really, really nice writing.
Dan Burns, 3 days ago
Wow! As a 47 y.o. father of a 25 y.o. daughter, this touched me down tomy soul. I cried! Thank you for sharing your thoughts on your life with your Dad.