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Another Birthday, Another Letter

Hey Dad,

It’s me again, your son, lost again, and using these words to find my way back. I used to speak to you directly and still do on occasion, whispering when walking through the forest or having a back-and-forth conversation in my head while lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. But more often these days, I write my thoughts. And picturing you on the other side, like I’m going to print these pages, slide them into an envelope, and postmark them to the AfterLife brings me a form of clarity. Emotions rise to the surface more easily and the outside world fades away as my eyes well up and fingers spider-walk the keyboard. I’m more precise and economical with my words as well, like I don’t want you to go through the trouble of opening that envelope, sliding out the pages, and rolling your eyes at my rambling paragraphs. They say we’re in Heaven for Eternity, so I think you have some time to spare, but I never want anyone to waste a single minute on me, Dad. 

…

I think that’ll be the first paragraph of the book, Dad. I want to open with a letter to you and start every chapter that way because, as I said, it gives me profound clarity. 

Writing directly to you cuts straight through the noise and garbage, the bullshit and worry, and the chaos and distraction that is the world right now and life in general, like one of those slow-motion scenes from a movie where the focus is on a single straight-faced character and all around them is a swirl of smoke, explosions, and mayhem. 

Writing to you slows it down. And I need that because I spend too much of my time in the noise, the worry, and the chaos. 

But I’m chipping away at the book, Dad. I don’t want to bore you with the day-to-day dynamics, so I’ll just say that it’ll get done. I’ll get to the finish line someday. When? I’m still not sure yet. 

At the moment, I’m just trying not to put too much pressure on myself.

Because that’s been my default mode since starting 18 Uncles, like I’m running an ultra-marathon and forty miles behind where I think I should be. 

Always.

I’m thinking in too many “should be-s,” Dad.

Not just in 18 Uncles… but in life.