I honestly don't know why I do this to myself.

Watching Finding Neverland made me cry. No one told me that the boys in the story lose BOTH of their parents. When the final credits appeared, I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Something about that last scene: the "I see her," did me in. I needed to hear my dad's voice. So I listened to his sermon on my computer about hope.

And then I looked for things I've written about him on my computer, and couldn't find any. So I went back to my blog-- my first Xanga-- and started browsing the archives. At first I could hardly stand my ridiculous high school drama writing style, but then I could see a change in my writing as I found an authentic voice; poetry emerged that I can't match even today.

And then started the emotional journey, following the highs and lows of late 2003 and into 2004. I forgot about so many things; there are details about PSA counts, having fluid in his lungs, the weakness and complaints of pain. I saw the depression again. There's some reliving of the past in reading those posts; I ache for the self that had become so lost in grief. It's hard to read them.

Yet there's something about the routine of reading these things year after year, with the anniversary or holidays, that needs to be done. I have to remember. I don't have a choice. And I don't want to forget or lose these things. Each post that talks about my dad somehow I email to myself, so that I have it and can do a simple search for these things instead of paging through looking for the poetry.

But I could really use a hug.


Betsy




Here is an example of a poem I wrote in high school (not one of my best)

[Thursday, December 11, 2003]


look. see that girl in the long white dress?

holding onto her father's arm?

that's the person i almost was.



her father's hair is combed back,

yet streaked with lighter hairs,

but walks proudly with a long stride.



mine... my father has grey chemo hair, matted and thin.

his steps are slow and short, while he pauses to catch his breath.

a year, maybe. maybe longer, perhaps shorter.

he will never see a church dressed in candlelight,

a young woman and a young man comitting their lives to eachother...

no. that is just a dream, one that we both had when i was young,

but as unrealistic as a fish growing wings.



yes, see that girl with her father?

that's the girl i almost was.