I’ve been working hard re-writing and polishing my fourth novel, Barkerton. Trying to balance that with blogging and getting on Twitter, and...well...failing. Yesterday, however, I was given pause to think and reflect. It was four years ago, June 7th, that my Father passed away. I know they say time heals all wounds, but no matter how much I appear to be coping, his loss, and that of my Mother still hits me hard.
My Mom has been gone for eleven years now. It was a loss that struck me to the core of my being; I had a great relationship with my Mom, and she provided a voice and guidance that I could turn to when life became complicated – or just when I wanted someone to talk to. If your Mom is still around, do not underestimate the value of being able to pick up the phone and call her; for me, it is now just a dream.
My Mother dedicated herself to raising her kids, and gave her all to us. Now that I look back, I honestly believe she was a frustrated writer; it was my Mother that instilled a love of reading and writing in me. She wrote well, and I can’t help but wonder what she would have written if she’d actually nurtured her talent. Instead she nurtured my talent. I believe she sacrificed her dreams, to give me my dream; she set me on the path, that has now developed into novel writing, and that is a gift I am unable to truly thank her for, as I’ve realized all of this only after her passing.
Dad, well, Dad was a presence; he was a giant of a man with a good heart. He never failed to help others, and did so because he really truly cared. Dad wasn’t an avid reader of books, but he consumed newspapers on a daily basis, as well as magazines devoted to history. In his own way, he was a well-read and intelligent man. What he gave me is whatever strength of character I currently have. He showed me what it was to be a good human being, and while I know I’ll never completely measure up to him, by making me strive to do so, he has made me a better man. My Dad and I were close, and his passing still haunts me to this day. You see, when Mom became sick with cancer, Dad was her main caretaker, and it wasn’t until that wretched disease afflicted him, and my wife and I became his main caretaker, that I realized all he had done for her and all he had gone through – with grace, dignity and no complaints.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents were not perfect, but from what I do know, in being born as their son, I did win a biological lottery. So much of whom and what they were, makes me who and what I am today. I believe that is reflected in my writing and my ability to have become a writer.
I miss them.
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