A Letter To My Father

Hey Dad,

I used to look up to you when I was little.

I remember your arms — tree trunks beside my tiny twigs — and the surety you carried before I was old enough to see the cracks beneath the surface. I wanted to be like you once. I believed every word you spoke, as if heaven itself had declared it.

But that was then. This is now. Years divide us from who we were.

We have wounds now, fissures in the geography of our hearts, with rivers of regret winding through the weathered terrain. It’s hard to relate when both of us shy away from the past, hiding behind small talk about the weather. Strangers, after so long pretending not to be.

I used to ask myself if we could ever go back.

And the Lord answered me.

He reminded me of the good times — the adventures in the magical land of the Henderson Lot, safaris in the old shack where ceramics were made. He showed me our hunts for that fabled gold mine our twice-removed great-uncle’s father’s cousin’s brother swore he found while drunk.

He even brought back the memory of the lady slippers — you warning me not to pick them because they were the state’s flower. I didn’t listen, of course. Maybe I half-believed your story about the enchantment that might fall on children who disturbed them. I laugh now, but those little myths shaped the imagination that carries me still.

I remember the fishing trips too — though I hated worms, and fish, and worse, the slimy marriage of both. I always followed you anyway. You were fearless, while I was lost the moment we left the driveway.

Those were golden times, weren’t they, Dad?

Simple and kind. Magic flowing from father to son.

No distance, no weight of life — just a kid and his dad.

Good days, my friend.

Good enough, I believe, to heal the gulf between us.

For with God, all things are possible. Even broken pottery can be reformed.

Anyway, these are just my ramblings — a bit of verbosity to feed the soul.

See you soon, okay, Pop?

With love,

Your child,

Dust