It’s been awhile since we talked and I figured it might be time; all things considered, 1988 was a long time ago. I think I may have tried to get in touch with you after that, I don’t remember, the time goes by so fast I can hardly remember last week. I do remember the last time I saw you, but we were unable to talk due to circumstances. There is so much I want to talk to you about it is hard to find a starting place.

I am 33 now, married for 12 years and a father of three, not just one. My youngest two are beautiful little girls with the fire and vigor that comes with being three and four years old. The youngest has your mother’s name as her middle. She provides the comedy relief around the house, sometimes even on purpose. The older girl is all girl, very particular about her clothes and how she looks. She is always looking in the mirror, dancing and singing the day away. And the boy, he was about a year and a half when he saw you (he is now in first grade) and I am not sure that he remembers. He doesn’t ask much any more. He reminds me very much of me; headstrong and independent. As you stated to your mother, he at least has have my name as his middle; one thing you gave me that I passed on. I wish you could see them now… I wish.

My wife is a beautiful woman that has made me much of what I am today. She is strong, independent, and a wonderful mother. She keeps me in line and helps me when I am in need. She tells me that it is okay to think about you, but not to obsess. She says I have to live my life with my family and she is right. As difficult as it is to say, she is right. She has made me see that you are not a strong man. You are not a great man. You are not a very good father. But you are my father…

I am as I was when you last saw me, just a bit heavier and sporting your receding hairline. Hopefully, mine will stop at a reasonable point like yours. If not, oh well. I have put on a few pounds, but am working on that. I struggle with bouts of procrastination in just about every aspect of my life. I am fairly successful in the corporate world and am working for the same in the private sector. I own a house and two cars, one brand new. I am not the things that I own; I am what is on the inside. Sometimes my insides are so messed up I can hardly see. I am emotional. I am reactionary. I am happy. I am sad. I am good. I am bad. I am so many things that you will never know.

I know much of our estrangement had to do with my actions when I was about 10 years old, under duress, and not knowing the magnitude of what I was being told to say by the stepfather. Your being an adult and a father at the time, I would have thought that you would have tried a bit harder than you did… But you didn’t. We tried once, it didn’t turn out too well. The last time, well, I really don’t know what happened there. I do know that every time I look at the scars on my knee, I think of those conversations. The last ones…

If I could talk to you face to face, I would ask about your thoughts as you loaded the Dan Wesson 8 inch barrel, .357 magnum full, with six, full load talon tip, hollow point bullets. I would ask what you were thinking as you sat down on your kitchen floor cross-legged. I would ask what about the “practice” shot found in the ceiling. I would ask why you didn’t call when I found my address and number right next to your phone. I would ask what the barrel tasted like. If you felt anything. If it hurt. Why you were so fucking selfish that you couldn’t even leave a note, not so much for my sister, or me, but for your mom and your brother. Why on my mother’s birthday. Why was I put in a situation where I was meeting my grandmother, my uncle and my cousin again after 15 years of silence. Why I was asking a woman and her son about what my father was really like. Why I allow the pain to still emerge and twist me in ways that no man should be twisted in. What I should tell my son when he catches me crying in an off moment.

I would tell you that I miss you so much more now than when you were alive and ask you why that is.

All I hope is that you are no longer in whatever pain you were in. Until we meet again, think about your answers.

Your son,

Eric

P.S. Tell God I have a lot to discuss with him as well.