Cleaning, I stumbled across an old letter from my Dad. His script in pencil is so artful and distinctive. He sent it along with some little gifts, which he discounted saying that his real gift was to let me choose from any of his artwork, when I came to see him next. This was when he lived in Seattle in an old Victorian home. The place later burned with most of his artwork in it, but his friend put a ladder to the window and saved him, from where he was sleeping upstairs. So, what of the "stuff" survived? This letter he sent in love, reaching me now, all these years later, past his death from brain cancer. Love is the only thing we get to keep from our time here.
Proof 2-4-14
I found your words today.
An apology,
A debt forgiven,
A gift of love,
and generous
words
resurrecting
your presence
as tangibly
as something
just swallowed,
felt
and known,
if yet
invisible.
Can you have survived,
by some delicate,
artful arrangement
of forces
outside time
and space?
Can you
yet be still
forgiven me
even now?
The perfect
asymmetry
of our placement
just so,
from the sun.
The moon
set
just so,
to light the darkness.
To pull the waves
into soothing
rhythmic,
cyclic sound.
To soothe
the wounded animal
that lies weak
within me.
Surely,
this must be proof
that you still
exist,
and have not
left me.
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