The last time I had to write something that wasn’t a grant proposal, the advice given was “write what you know.” Some agree, some disagree.
My creative muscles have atrophied over the past few decades, so I think I have to start by writing what I know. The problem as I see it is that I am a bit of a downer. I have another problem.
What if I wanted to write about what I know, but I will never get to know more about my topic? What if I missed the chance to get curious, to spend time, to identify the hidden mysteries and layers and joys and sorrows that made up the essence of this person? My dad is dead. He didn’t “pass away.” He died. I watched him die, in pain but surrounded by family. He is dead. My unknowable dad. My brilliant, resolutely stoic, complex, loving, and “gone-too-soon” father who revealed more about himself in the last 10 days of his life than he ever did in the 40 years I spent with him. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he tell me more when I was growing up? Why didn’t I ask?
I want to write more about him, but I can’t. What can I mine from my memories? How can I keep him tethered to this world and to my heart if I only have the same few memories to recycle? Three and a half years later, I am beginning to forget his scent. I can barely conjure up the sound of his voice. I am a bad daughter. I forgot his birthday this year. I kept some of his ashes. I hate that he had a shitty savings plan. All his friends are dead. It’s too late. I am a bad daughter. Where will I ever find more memories of him if I can’t find more people who remember him? He will no longer exist if no one says his name, if his face and voice fade from our brains, and that makes me desperate, furious, raw. He would hate that I am talking like this. I don’t care. I will never know more. And I will never be able to write what I know, not about him.
