For a time I kept a journal, writing to my dad when I felt I needed to talk with him. Dad never talked back though and after awhile, some might say I got over the need to talk with him, or I just got tired of a one way conversation. Basically, I think I got tired of conversations that tore me apart to have and wouldn't change anything.
It wasn't easy to keep the words away, often I couldn't sleep. Before, when I would purge the words from my mind to sleep, now I just read, or stared at the ceiling until finally sleep overcame me. Finally, the words, it was as if they disappeared behind a wall. Bits and pieces, maybe I could force out, like here when I was despairing if I would ever writing again or here where I even admitted that I was Poet No More.
My husband's birthday present to me was a tattoo - it's a cross that commemorates my dad & has a banner on it with the year he was born and the year he died.
For eight plus years I thought about getting it, but could never decide on exactly what, or exactly where. Finally everything came together, the artist is awesome and I think that it's a permanent reminder that yeah, my dad died, but I have his memory, forever a part of me. I can move on, without forgetting. I don't have to live my life afraid, afraid that if I keep growing up (got married, planning on moving away) that I'll forget him. I know I won't, I can't. Not just because of the tattoo, although it helps as a visual reminder. My dad was such a part of the first 22 years of my life that he impacted who I am today, who I will always be.
There was one reason I stopped writing, but oh so many steps to get it back again. Still not sure I will, not sure I want to. There are other theories, etc. that I will speculate on later as well...for now...why I stopped, at least that's a part of a beginning...
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