November 18th, 2009
Dear Trevor,
Would you ever tell Mrs. Henry about our correspondence? Would you ever show her my letters?
I’m not sure I’m helping you. I wonder if the burden of our secret relationship is just one more thing to weigh you down. Secrets, for the most part, are not good for the soul.
Soul. Is that the right word? Is that what I am now? Is my body still laying in the ground at Washington Memorial while my soul is sitting on this cabin porch, staring down the hill into the fog?
I do think you should talk to Mrs. Henry about your struggles with Will Mudgett. I wouldn’t think of it as tattling. You’re just looking for advice. You don’t even have to name names if you don’t want to. But I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the teachers already knew something sinister was going on between you two. Adults, for the most part, are smarter than kids give them credit for.
Don’t let Mudgett get to you, Trev. He’s just a kid like you. Deep down, he’s probably as scared as you are.
In general, people are scared almost all the time. When you’re a kid, it’s more personal things, by which I mean that you tend to be afraid of what will happen to you, personally. Will a girl like ME? Will a boy beat ME up? Will I fail a test? Will I look stupid? When you become a father, it’s worrying about your family that keeps you up at night. Will my sons find good friends? Will my daughter find a good husband? Will my wife cope after I’m gone.
When the cancer was winning its battle against me, worrying about your mom and you kids just about did me in. While I was alive, I tried pretty hard to provide for you all. I drove your mother crazy with my thriftiness. She went without whole seasons of new clothes so I could buy all the property I could afford that seemed like good investments to me. Thinking about it now, I wished I’d let her buy a few more dresses. I’d trade my cabin for one chance to see her in a red dress, with her hair all done up.
I’m pretty sure most of my speculations were spot on. Those waterfront lots would have turned into serious money if you all had been able to hold onto them. But I knew that as soon as I died, things would get hard for your mom and you kids. She’d have to sell the lots for you all to live on. I told her to do so. I told her the order in which to sell them. In other words, I gave her a bunch of advice. Lying there in bed, trying not to cough up blood, there was nothing else I could do.
That’s how I feel now, in this in-between place, hearing about your struggles. Death has separated me from the ability to provide a solution.
Dad
Dear Trevor,
Would you ever tell Mrs. Henry about our correspondence? Would you ever show her my letters?
I’m not sure I’m helping you. I wonder if the burden of our secret relationship is just one more thing to weigh you down. Secrets, for the most part, are not good for the soul.
Soul. Is that the right word? Is that what I am now? Is my body still laying in the ground at Washington Memorial while my soul is sitting on this cabin porch, staring down the hill into the fog?
I do think you should talk to Mrs. Henry about your struggles with Will Mudgett. I wouldn’t think of it as tattling. You’re just looking for advice. You don’t even have to name names if you don’t want to. But I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the teachers already knew something sinister was going on between you two. Adults, for the most part, are smarter than kids give them credit for.
Don’t let Mudgett get to you, Trev. He’s just a kid like you. Deep down, he’s probably as scared as you are.
In general, people are scared almost all the time. When you’re a kid, it’s more personal things, by which I mean that you tend to be afraid of what will happen to you, personally. Will a girl like ME? Will a boy beat ME up? Will I fail a test? Will I look stupid? When you become a father, it’s worrying about your family that keeps you up at night. Will my sons find good friends? Will my daughter find a good husband? Will my wife cope after I’m gone.
When the cancer was winning its battle against me, worrying about your mom and you kids just about did me in. While I was alive, I tried pretty hard to provide for you all. I drove your mother crazy with my thriftiness. She went without whole seasons of new clothes so I could buy all the property I could afford that seemed like good investments to me. Thinking about it now, I wished I’d let her buy a few more dresses. I’d trade my cabin for one chance to see her in a red dress, with her hair all done up.
I’m pretty sure most of my speculations were spot on. Those waterfront lots would have turned into serious money if you all had been able to hold onto them. But I knew that as soon as I died, things would get hard for your mom and you kids. She’d have to sell the lots for you all to live on. I told her to do so. I told her the order in which to sell them. In other words, I gave her a bunch of advice. Lying there in bed, trying not to cough up blood, there was nothing else I could do.
That’s how I feel now, in this in-between place, hearing about your struggles. Death has separated me from the ability to provide a solution.
Dad
Filed under Dad Letters | Tags: adolescence, afterlife, bullying, cancer, fatherhood, fear, junior high school, middle school, purgatory, real estate, red dress, speculation | Comment (0)