From my Dad I think I got my ability to be confident, and cool under pressure (or at least believably fake those things). His last lesson came in 1989.

From my Mum, I think I got my eye and heart for art, music, and beauty (and to accept people and keep myself open-minded). Her last lesson came in 1995.

Neither of them consciously tried to pass along their values to me, but everything was evident, and I remember all the real-time demonstrations.

How to love. How to regret.
How to try. How to leave.

We had some talks, some significant moments together, and some good storytelling. It’s all in bits and pieces, like those boxes of magnetic fridge words that you can use to make up phrases. It can be either a poem or a horror story. The raw material is there for you to compose.

They were so different – in many ways, almost opposite personalities. I never saw much of whatever sweetness must have brought them together. I just have to believe it was there in the beginning.

Their legacy is woven into my life, and my sister’s life, and a few fine threads reach farther out to their grandchildren, whom Mum and Dad should regret never being able to properly meet.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to answer the question “Why?”
I think the exercise of asking is the way to keep you awake
so you don’t fall asleep in the backseat,
when you ought to be up front
driving the damned bus.

There’s no reward. Nobody asks to be born,
but only a fool ignores the priviledge of being alive.