My Dead Father

My father died twenty-four years ago today. I was twenty-three years old. Really, still just a punk trying to find my way in this world. I'm still lost. My father was a highly-skilled smoker - one of those professionals who inhale the smoke with great proficiency and adoration.  He was only forty-nine when he died. He had this uncontrollable smoker's cough that would possess his whole body when it came - he'd choke and cough so violently that strangers would think he was dying right there before them. By age ten, I no longer heard the coughing - it was just an extension of my father, like a laugh or a sneeze. My world changed drastically when the cigarettes took him. His death gave birth to something inside me. I was a very poor verbal communicator when it came to my feelings, so I took to writing my feelings down. My very first poem was about him. He used to always call me rabbit, as in Peter Rabbit. I miss being called rabbit. The poem is below and at one point, I had a band named Southpaw and we recorded a song version of this poem. It came out good. During his final weeks, he was hooked up to a ventilator and couldn't speak. We used a dry-erase board to communicate until he could no longer communicate with us. I used to sit in his room for hours just watching him die and often sneaked out of the house late at night to visit him. At that point, there are no visiting hours, you can visit at any time for however long you like. The poem below is the conversation I had with him years after his death, based on my feelings at the time of his death - feelings I didn't understand. At age twenty-three, I was just becoming a man - just getting to know him for the awesome man that he was - a man that I could never be. I will never be a good a man as he was and that breaks my heart. But, I was glad to have met him. The words in the first stanza of the poem go both way. Read them from both mine and his point of view. The last stanza is what I've been struggling with all of my adult life. They're such simple, powerful words I still don't understand.

It's sad to me that good writers rely on the suffering they endure, often going through it alone - despite the family and support that surrounds them. I continue to write about my father, but have learned to write about him on a more subconscious level. To illustrate my point, The Suicide Flowers is just me trying to work through my father's death through the plot points of Raeburn, Gabriel, Isabelle, Spencer, and Bunny. I am all of these characters and I have many points of view. Mostly, I am Raeburn, trying to find my way in this world. Me and my dad are the true suicide flowers. I won't spoil the story if you haven't read it...

Ultimately, my father had a deep impact on who I am trying to be today, and that's beautiful.

I miss you, Peter Conrad.

Rabbit
I was glad to have met you.
I never realized we had so much in common.
We were men, we were boys,
We were the world with all its joys.
This world is big - you should see it.
Stay in my world, because I really need it.
Take care of her. Oh, I will.
Yes sir, I'll make sure she's well.
I should go now. It's getting late.
I'm tired and I've stayed longer than I should have.

And you said rabbit.
My name was rabbit.
You said rabbit.

Where shall I go? Who shall I be?
Image of you? Image of me?
It's been so long, you made the trip.
But it was good to have met you.
Where shall I go? Who shall I be?
Image of you? Image of me?
It's been so long, you made the trip.
But it was so good to have met you.