This is my dad. He’s the best.
"I’ve tucked away a book in a dusty shelf of a coffee shop, waiting for that day it will come alive in my hands. Every now and again, I check to see it’s there, still waiting. One day, the sun will shine and the rain will fall and I’ll sit, cup in hand, inside this terrarium of crumbling plaster and patchwork colors, and enter the world it’s holding for me."
"Emotions have both expressive function as well as an instrumental function."
"Try giving up on true love. I dare you. You’ll find yourself sinking till you finally give into the tide that pulls you under and you become one with the ebb and flow of grace."
Just a flower
I’m packing boxes again and it’s overwhelming how that brings existential concerns and confessions.
I try to tell myself that it’s all part of the living, this losing. It doesn’t make it any less painful. I see the hours, minutes, slowly falling from the clock, and I try to slow them. But, they have somewhere else to be, and I can’t stop time. He’s too slippery, dodging each attempt I make to convince him to pause one second more.
It’s just a flower, breathing and bleeding into air that will soon take it’s luster. It will soon be just a shell of a memory and I’ll dry it and put in a vase until it’s too fragile and crumples, till all I’m left with is colored dust.