Unattended Mailbox

When confronted with a situation where less than stellar news has to be related, I often subscribe to a philosophy of ripping of the bandaid. The quicker you get something off your chest the better.

I found this to be a consistent approach of mine, even in my efforts to cope with the recent loss of my father.

Although he died suddenly, nothing could have prepared me for a loss of this magnitude. My father, or Daddy as I still call him even in my twenties, was, and will continue posthumously, to be my best friend. We enjoyed each other. Whether I needed some comic relief or serious advice, I always relied on him to give me a mix of both.

My Daddy was not finished with me when he passed. Our conversation was not over.

The day he died I started writing in a journal in an attempt to process my pain and reconcile my thoughts. It was not until after we buried him that I began writing him letters in this journal. Letters that would have been the dialog of our daily chats. Letters inherently written to an unattended mailbox are what I use to continue our conversation.

I love you Daddy.