I want to write, but there are those times when words just won’t come. No matter how much I want to force them, they just refuse to be there. And it’s strange because words are my medicine, my cathartic force. They fix things. But they can’t fix this.
I’ve been trying to write, but I can’t seem to get anything out. I can’t work on my book. I can’t work on my blog.
I wrote a poem for my dad, because I wanted him to have it. I wanted to send it with him. And I wanted everyone to know he had it. Definitely not my best work, but when you consider that I wrote it with about a half a bottle of wine in me and with a full flood of tears flowing, maybe you can forgive me.
Dad, you weren’t perfect, but I still haven’t found anyone on this earth who is. You were the best daddy I could have had, and I hope the memories keep pouring in. I miss you already, and I will miss you always.
Every single time you saw me, you told me, “Let Jesus sleep on your pillow.” This one’s for you, Dad.