Inspiration

I recently read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It moved me in so many ways: to laughter, to tears, to compassion, to empathy, to rage, to disgust, to deep, deep conviction, to love, to breathe, to write. The book was poetry and perspective, surface tension and darkness of depth. The book was my past in blood and my past in faith and my hope in future. It spoke of me, and played out dissonance I couldn't begin to articulate. What a moment of brilliance.

I miss writing. I miss it like I miss my father, with a dull ache that occasionally rises to an unbearable sharpness caught in the throat. I miss the inadequacy of words, the fumbling that miraculously results in beauty and brilliance. I miss the desperation, the drive to express what language can only stretch its fingers towards before it inevitably falls short.

This time of year is sharp, unceasingly on the edge of paranoia, seeing him in everything with a pain that the rest of the year is joyous nostalgia. This time of year is no more brownies with pecans, or horses in giftboxes, or grandchildren. It hurts, but hurts is not the word. Burns, tugs, weeps, regrets, longs, hopes beyond hope. What can you say, with words? You can't say tears, but you have to try. 186 years would still have been too short. Love you, Daddy.