I write for readers. I write in the hope that my private truth might enlighten another’s path. And, if I hit my stride, maybe even ease their burden. I write because I am a writer. I write because the page is my onramp to the highway of this life. I write to know myself. I write so that maybe my father will know me, too.
He died. 39 years ago. Today. Eight months to the day after his cancer diagnosis. The man was good with numbers. While fighting for his life, his body ravaged by ‘heroic’, ‘cutting edge’ treatments’ as his spirit wrestled the Demon Cancer, he once said, “All of us know that death and taxes are a certainty. We just don’t want to know exactly when.” He bore his painful knowledge with stoic grace even when he was in great pain.
I loved that troubled soul and I am grateful for the trust fund his number savvy enabled – you gave me the drive to produce, Dad. You give me time to write. I am indebted. I am grateful.
I write because I twitch. I write because my decline is inevitable, like death and taxes – but slow. I write to declare, “I’m okay!” to myself. And to others. My decline will be gradual. All of us are degenerating neurologically – I’m just doing it more formally. I write because I’m a writer and words are my way of being in the world. Thank you, God, the universe and thank you, Dad. Thank you for the savvy, the drive and the words which I hope are read. Fondly.