Letter to a Grieving Father

-- One of my favorite things I've ever written was a piece called "Letter to a Grieving Daughter." I wanted to do a second piece, but with a different tone. --

"Letter to a Grieving Father"

Dear Dad,

I'm asking you not to write a book about this. I realize you may think this is unfair of me to ask, but I really don't care. Honestly, I don't care what you think.

I saw it. I saw it in your eyes at the funeral. As people were passing by us in the receiving line telling us how sorry they were, I saw that look that says--"I have to write about this."

So I'm asking you not to--it's as simple as that.

I know it's how you process things. I know it's what you do. I know it's who you are. I realize that, for you, it may be theraputic.

But I need you to realize that she wasn't just your wife. She wasn't just yours. And you're not allowed to just open up her life to the world, and yours, and mine along with it. Just because it'll make you feel better.

It's not that I don't understand. I write too, remember? Of course you don't. You've never really thought of me that way. You scan everything I read and then nod and hand it back to me. You've been doing that since I was a kid. I doubt you read my book, but I didn't say anything because you gave me a blurb for the jacket anyway.

I've thought about writing about Mom. About the past six months. About the Hell. I even jotted down a few lines in a brand new notebook. A shiny notebook just waiting for me to tell it all my horrific anecdotes about treatment, and tumors, and crying until you can't cry anymore, and screaming after that until your voice is hoarse and the pillow you're screaming into takes on a permanent indentation of your tear-streaked face.

I wrote all that. But there was nothing in it.

They were just words. Words people have written before, but not as well. Not as poignant. Not as enlightening. They just sat there in that brand new notebook.

If I had to use a word to describe them I would say--"accusing." They sat there "accusing" me.

Trust me, Dad. There was no art in those words.

No catharsis. No beauty. Nothing.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking if you had written those words then there would be all those things, and more. There'd be a best-seller. There'd be money. There'd be a book tour and interviews on NBC earlier in the morning than I get up--so you could really let loose.

You'd fill up ten brand new notebooks, and a year later I'd walk by a Barnes and Noble and see your face on a poster next to a copy of a book with Mom's face on it, and some lovely title like her name or "Love, Lost."

The comma making it really powerful.

I'm not sure I could handle that, Dad. I can handle her being gone, because I have to. But I shouldn't have to handle your therapy in the form of two hundred pages and a mention on the acknowledgment page.

So I've written you this letter.

I thought about giving it to you afterwards. After all the fuss had quieted, and you were back on your feet again. Then I realized that by then you'd already be halfway through the book and there'd be no stopping you. Then I wondered why I was even protecting you at all. Haven't I lost her too? Isn't she still impossible to me now as well?

Won't we both be waking up from now on without her in our lives?

So I'm going to be insensitive, because--in this moment--that's my therapy. So I'm not going to ask; I'm telling you:

You're not writing that book.

Because if you do, you'll have lost more than her.

Sincerely,
Your Son

P.S. I should mention that you were a terrific husband, from what I could see. You may have been downright awful as a father, and personally, I hate your writing, but you were great with her. Maybe that's why we never got along. Maybe I resented how much you two loved each other, and I always slightly suspected that after you were both done loving each other there was just never anything left for me. Maybe that's why I still haven't cried. Maybe that's why I feel better now than I did when she was still here, and I had to give my life to her. Maybe I'm just a horrible person. Who can say? I don't have a book in me about her, or you, or our lives. Maybe that's why I'm so upset. Maybe I wish I could take all that pain, and just put in a brand new notebook and send it off somewhere to have a shiny cover put on it. A shiny cover and a nice title and a closing sentence. An epilogue. I'd like that most of all.