Talk Without Speaking

October 27 looms in front of me but I’m trying (and sometimes failing) to keep that out of my mind. But, then again, I think it’s important to face this and deal with it; I don’t see the benefit in pushing it off. Whatever else I can be charged with, I certainly couldn’t be accused of not facing my grief.

My father. His stubble was as sharp as blades when he would wake me up in the morning by planting some of his shaving cream at the end of my nose. I remember wishing that, even in that, I wanted to emulate him (I have succeeded).

One of the things that sucks the most currently is that I have not the smallest doubt that my father would not want me to be sad. To go a step further I know that he would be so upset with me for being upset this long. He would want me to live my life to the fullest, to adventure, to admire, to dream, to accomplish, to seize.

I am his son, though, and I guess he knows that as much as I am like him, I am also very different in many ways. My heart is, and always has been, on my sleeve and I often leave it far too vulnerable. It’s just who I am.