I had this amazing idea earlier this year. I suddenly realized that in 1985, I was in the vicinity of my father from January 1st through December 31st. Why not write about the whole year, just like I had done for 1984?
I was excited and rushed in, looking forward to the discoveries I would make on that journey. I had forgotten that one-third of the way through 1985, an atomic bomb went off on the road that I was traveling. On April 3rd this year, that story came to an unexpected halt. I was innocently writing and then realized there was a river of depth I was unprepared to cross. Ever since then, I have existed on the banks of that story, pacing around like I had something to do before crossing, but the reality is, I have no idea how to cross the water.
I have to turn around and consider how to do it. I conveniently remove my responsibilities by saying it is not my story to tell. Deep down, I know there is plenty I could tell without taking liberties that do not belong to me.
I know it is because the story is fragmented, which I do not understand. Thirty-nine years ago, I skydived into adulthood in a land I did not understand. My scars have stories I have not thought about enough to tell. I know that I should, but I do not know how.
I have not given up. I am just sitting here by the fire, resting and considering how to cross this river. I do not give up. My tenacity might be complicated and indigenous, but it pushes back with equal force. You will see me on the other side of this. I will do it in my own time.
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