Things I'll Never Say
My father died. My biological father. Just like that. We had just spoken in the weeks before. By email of course. Because that was the relationship we had. A life in writing. He joked that my emails were longer than Tolstoy. I joked that he should grab a snack before reading. I don't think I replied to his last message. We talked about lawn mowing. His fondness for it. Enjoying the mindlessness of it. My hatred for it. Given my Hell lawn. But I didn't reply. Because I thought I would have time. Our messages sometimes started mid sentence and likely would make little sense to anyone but us. His shenanigans often made me laugh out loud. Our emails read much like the ramblings of a crazy person with a lot of "..." and never ending sentences. And they could not have been more similar. I could read an email he wrote and think it was my own writing. But the last one, I didn't reply. And then he died. Leaving me no more time to show him that I am good eno...