Today would have been my dads 66th birthday. Its our first one without him, but its now the little things I celebrate in his passing. When I was a kid, he gave me a notebook of poems he had written. It was decades old. I went home and typed them up, made a booklet printed in cursive with varying colors of ink bound with yarn. I cherished it as a kid, but eventually lost track of it through the moves and the clutter. Since his death, Ive been going mad trying to find his poetry. I no longer had the files that I had transcribed over 10 years ago. I found only a broken floppy disk and a CD with the words Dads poems scribbled across the front in my eighth grade handwriting, scratched beyond repair. I hadnt actively given up my search, but had torn apart every place I thought it might be. This morning, on my way back from the kitchen, I noticed the corners of some aged white paper sticking out from the bottom shelf of the record cabinet. Something told me to grab it... and there it was, the poetry booklet, hidden underneath a stack of sheet music. This is more special to me than you could imagine. Our love for writing and music was the strongest bond we shared. Going over his letters today, he wrote Im sure youre going to be a writer. You have a gift that is seldom so developed at an early age - This could surely bring you fame and fortune. But this is only half of what you need to be happy and have peace of mind. Later on in that letter he reminded me the importance of humility. I didnt end up a writer, but still poignant, dad. (I miss you all the time, you crotchety old man. But these poems remind me that there was a time when you were your best self, healthy and sharp witted. And while it defies all logic, Id like to believe you had something to do with these poems finding their way back to me. So, thanks.) I dont even know if my family knows these poems exist. Dads wife wont allow us into his house, let alone a memento- even things that have been in the family for decades (I know this is not legal.) For months Ive had nothing but a rose from his casket. But now we have these poems again, a sort of long-lost memoir of his past. I will share this one today because the message is fitting to his memory. This poem is unnamed. No minute, no hour, no day will return yesterdays wages will never be earned. No opportunity youve had will ever be again The second time is not the first and will never be the same. The things youve passed and didnt do could have certainly been nice, but nothing is like the first. The second time is twice. To be content with a normal life is not what I detest. But I refuse to take an average life and live just like the rest. If youre happy and content and adventure you defy, what could have happen youll never know because you never tried. All memories cant be good and some not good at all, but like the old man at his fireplace, its the stories he recalls Rights and wrongs compared to mistakes are different, not the same. So just keep on dreaming, dreamer or is dream on just your name? But I will try them all the days, the weeks, the months. This life is very short and Ill only live it once. -Robert J. Comeaux
Posted on: Tue, 28 Oct 2014 17:21:35 +0000
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