Unwritten Letters to My Father, Part One

There's a hole in the world.
I'm afraid I may fall through.
Someone has died
Was
Has gone
Is where?
Will be
Is 
How?
This is neither the first
Now the only time that space has opened.
We are riddled with death
Like a sieve.
The dark holes are as multitudinous 
As the stars in the galaxies,
As open to the cold blasts of wind.
If we fell through
What would we find?
Show me
Let me look through this new empty place
To where
The wind comes from
And the light begins.

                — Madeleine L'Engle, "Lines after M. B.'s Funeral"



There are so many things I want to tell you right now...

...that afternoons and evenings spent holed up in the basement painting doors and drinking coffee make me think of you.

...that I have been yearning to go camping at the beach with you, even though the thought of sand dribbling through my clothing and insects pressing close in sweaty, plague-like crowds makes me shudder.
 
...that I still incorrectly install doorknobs.
 
...that baking special treats for people is still my specialty, and that strawberry shortcake is next on my list.
 
...that instrumental guitar music makes my heart ache because I remember you playing to yourself in the living room that one night when I was still six and I came out of my bedroom rubbing my eyes because I'd had a nightmare, and that memory still makes me feel safe.
 
...that I want to sit down once more to the dinner table with you and listen to you turn the dishes of food into a cast of characters enacting a comic drama as we devour them.
 
...that your distress over my childhood sloppiness needs not continue: I put food away immediately after I have finished using it, wipe up every spill, even if it's only water, and cover both edibles and compost religiously to keep off the flies.
 
...that there are tears stinging the corners of my eyes because the last time we spent together you took me to a concert with a violin soloist and went out of your way to compliment me and make pleasant conversation, and I pulled away because I was tired and sad and had a headache — I wish now that I had ignored the pinching of my heels and the pain in my temples and thrown myself into having the best time possible.
 
...that my quondam condemnation of your coffee habit has been replaced by a curious sense of kinship over the daily ritual of consuming bitter brew.
 
...that introducing me to John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel and Kansas and George Winston has permanently impacted my musical tastes and style — for the better.
 
...that you handing me your guitar and saying, after twenty years of loving the instrument, that it was mine now because you heard what happened when my fingers met the strings and you wanted me to go on playing as much as I wanted, makes me wonder even now how much you cared and how much I failed to see it.
 
...that the way you weep when songs move you cracks my heart open.
 
...that I love the way you forgive your brothers and go on reaching out to them even though you still don't know how to get along.
 
...that I'm still waiting to hear the end of "Michael Joey and the White Lightning", and that Willy and Billy ought to make a comeback.
 
...that I love the quiet after everyone is in bed just as much as you do.
 
...that I miss taking long walks together, whether along the oceanside or on the back roads close to home.
 
...that I miss the rise and fall of your voice when you're carrying on long phone conversations with your "man friends".
 
...that I miss your mis-pronounced Italian phrases and your long-winded rants about whatever topic happens to be wound up in your mind.
 
...that it's been too long since we've eaten pizza together.
 
...that I miss you.
 
...that I miss you.
 
...that I miss you.