The last two months I’ve immersed myself into the part of my father’s life he lived before my birth.
Strange that now, out of left-field, comes another thought — maybe because it was Dad’s birthday not long ago — and the second anniversary of his death not long ago, too — and Father’s Day coming up making three — a thought about the part of life we did share together; especially words I finally shared when Daddy laid dying — of how I’d always found him handsome, from the time I was a little girl, and how I always wished that somehow I could marry a man as good-looking as he was — and I think — no, I’m sure — I surprised my father with that wobbly left-field confession.
Why is it, I wonder — I mean, what caused me to wait and sit on these lovely words rather than sharing them with my father in real-time?; why did I instead choose to speak of bank statements and pancakes and old black and white movies rather than speak aloud of childhood dreams which carried the greater weight?
Now that’s real writing.
And why do we wait? Is it the same fear, keeping us from speaking to those we love and writing for those we’ll never know?
Good question. But maybe it is. At least, in part. Because, somehow ‘real’ writing involves risk. It’s requires me to speak dreams into reality.