I don’t know what to write today. I’ve been looking for inspiration. I’ve been hoping for the mundane.
But every time my mind starts to wander, all I can think is: My father would have been 73 today. 73 if it hadn’t been for that cancerous mass in his esophagus that metastasized throughout his throat and lungs before it was even discovered. My father would have been 73.
He passed away over three years ago, and you would think that would make such an ominous anniversary less troublesome. But each year it’s merely – different.
I’ve been writing every day for over two years, meaning that two of my father’s birthdays and two of his deathdays have passed in that time. And every time such a date rolls around I think to myself: I should write about my father.
And then I think: I’m not ready yet.
Not that I haven’t written about my father at all – he and his sayings have made a few cameos on this blog. But I haven’t paid him homage, as I have for my grandmother or for others whom I’ve lost since I began blogging.
I haven’t praised his strengths or made light of his failings. I haven’t shared his stories or described his many personas. I haven’t found those moments of joy and sorrow which perfectly capture what I want to say. I haven’t written that post, though I want to someday.
But, I think, not today.
These things take time.
People are too complicated, relationships too complex. A series of black and white shapes hardly does a whole person justice. Words hardly seem enough.
I’ll not reduce him to a two-dimensional representation. I’ll not pretend there was nothing but good times. Life is hard and complicated and messy and beautiful, and it seems a disservice to remember any life as less than that.
So I don’t know what to write. No, not today.
Maybe next year.