Seven Years
Today, it has been seven years since my father took his last breath, and left this world. In things I have read, apparently, every cell in your body reproduces/regenerates/dies and another replaces it—every seven years. Well, Dad, I guess that I am wholly a different person than the daughter listening to you breathe through that last night.
Dad and I in 2013
I have come across so many small pebbles left behind as I comb through your belongings. I knew enough to know you wrote, but the first few rounds, all I could do was attempt to toss each small piece of writing into one location. To this day, I still encounter scratches you left behind.
Today, I was organizing the loose papers, and came across a poem you wrote about me, to me? that I had not read before. Of course, you sent me a copy of “The Nestling”, written in 1991, at a time was going through some difficult things. This new one was written in 2015. Thank you, Dad.
In the batch I was sorting today, I came across an envelop with notes he had made when he was fighting for custody of me in 1976. That was unexpected. And I will go back to it soon to decipher is cryptic notes. Between sheets of poetry was also a letter/book I had created for him at some point after I moved on out my 16th birthday. It was enough to hold these few items he chose to hold on to despite the ramblings of his life.
I miss our late night phone calls, and random coffees. I miss your singing, your joking, your care. You were always seeking something, and I hope you found your way to come back as an eagle, as you wished.
