there is a tree in the backyard of your old house that wonders why I’ve stopped coming to climb it. this is how i miss you.
i think we try and raise our sons to be the men we wanted our fathers to be.
he’s a bit older now than the first time you met him. i see you and i in the ways i try to grasp his silences.
there is often anger--and sometimes happiness, but never misunderstanding.
i don’t think that i ever thought you were wrong about anything. the times i pretended you were amount to a curiosity for the why.
this is a hunger i feel blessed to have inherited from you. i will do my best to make sure my son is fed.
perhaps if i do, he will have the courage to send me letters before time comes to cut me down and haul me away.
The Palace of Dreams