papa

hey papa. 

you always said you didn’t want people to tell lies at your funeral, so I’m not going to do that. 

truthfully, 

you are the best story teller I know. You only read me a handful of your short stories you’d written but I remember always being captivated by the way you wrote. It inspired me. Hopefully I’m half as good as you are. 

Even better were your stories you’d recite verbally from memory (even though grandma would usually beg to differ on the details you shared) you always made funny faces and had expressive mannerisms and your laugh is one of the best I’ve heard (I can hear it right now). 

Logically, “enjoying roadtrips” is not genetic, though our shared passion for it makes me wonder if it might be. 

I’m sorry I didn’t go to Yellowstone with you more. I’m sorry I didn’t go to South Dakota with you and grandma that one time.

I would do anything to have one more chance at a road trip with you. 

I’ll beg God and if he agrees, we’ll go across the whole country. 

thank you for teaching me the delight of a peach cobbler (not only how to make it, but also how to serve it— with lots of milk and cinnamon) and underbaked chocolate chip cookies. (matter of fact, I think you underbaked everything. but it’s okay because I like it that way too.) 

I’m recalling memories of us together and giggling (through tears) over you “hating” cats (with a passion) for years, but how you finally fell victim to Bug and Frankie’s love (and would always call them over whenever they were in sight). 

I would always smile when I came downstairs to see one of them curled up in your lap, how you mixed up their names occasionally and sometimes forgot them entirely, referring to them as “kitty cats” or “puppies”. 

I’m sorry for all the things you went through that I know nothing about. I know there are trials (and probably horrors) that you went through throughout your life and your young years and you were always too damn stubborn to talk about it (it’s okay, I am too sometimes). 

I really sincerely hope you find peace. 

I don’t know what comes after this life (and I know you’d get mad at me and say “Heaven, of course”) but I hope whatever or whoever it is has you wrapped in a big, big hug. The kind that moms give. 

I hope you know I love you, and I always have, even  though we’d argue from time to time. I know you still loved me regardless too. 

I don’t know how to end this letter, but I’m sure we’ll talk more. Now I have a constituent (is that the right word?) on the “other side”, feel free to send me guidance or advice at any time you’d like. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing most of the time. 

talk soon, 

alyx (sometimes “alisa, marin, damnit”)