He came with the purge.

It was tough enough to part with my collected debris. But the reason behind was the killer. The tables of life have changed and time as I now process is precious. And perhaps brief. All the memorabilia saved, the antique or thrift store purchases that were destined for rejuvenation when time allowed, were now deemed expendable. The long perceived cool shit I foolishly saved believing my beloved progeny would find so amazing was sadly viewed as having little to no value, despite the old man’s sentimental attractions.

The basement trip down memory lane, no matter the great intentions (as exuberantly proclaimed by beloved spouse) was still … a motherfucker. Yet another painful reminder of our mortality and the current cycle of my daily doom. Hah!

The furnace was leaking. The little pup somehow tripped a breaker and lay dormant and lifeless. With the exception of the small river followed the uneven gravitational pull, and happily discovered a priceless box of old letters, address books, bills, and even multiple editions of Backstreets magazine with the Boss in his prime. If they had potential value prior to the current mess, the new assessment provided renewed clarity.

Thankfully the top layers had not yet succumbed to the dampness and the lingering musty perfume had not yet claimed all its intended victims. Somewhere sandwiched amongst the personal notes, weathered photographs, and even a few touching love letters from long forgotten romances, were letters from my pops. I confess, they caught me off guard.

My father was a stoic man of letters. If not reading in his favorite chair (or snoozing), he was typing away at his arthritic Underwood. He loved language and often romanced – if prodded – on the glory of words and syntax. His chair and books were his rocket and fuel, and the glory of prose launched him throughout the universe, happily journeying to exotic worlds and cultures he knew he may never see in the physical. But the reality of who he was and where he stood never hindered his sense of literary adventure.

I left home at 18 to begin my own journey, fully with Pop’s encouragement. And demand. But we often spoke in letters, his greatest generation script often challenging to fully decipher without consistent review and analysis. He often included articles he felt were pertinent to my explorations. And always words of encouragement – never disappointment in my often errant ways. His love was quiet, somewhat detached, but still undeniable. I never doubted.

I reread his note today clinging to each word, even the words he crossed, then rewrote again with better clarity? It was even dated – I was then 23. I wondered where he composed, what room, what was the weather? Was it evening and where was mom? What caught his attention that sparked his note, and where at that moment was I and how did my own mind process the time and place I existed? Obviously oblivious to the opportunities before me and the recognition that my seemingly empty mental hard drive was still primed with the potential to fulfil my endless dreams and passions. I just needed to pick one, maybe two and follow the voices from within. And he sensed my struggles, even remained silent by my complacency, my apathy, my lazy pity upon myself for doing nothing of value. A rite of passage, maybe. His generation never enjoyed such luxury. My sweet pops. Steadfast in his encouragement.

He has been gone for over 2 decades now but is always in my heart. And my vision on how best to process each new step and reality of change. He’s with me attending my life and health changes, he’s with me as I navigate life’s constant struggles, he’s with me when I contemplate how best to reconcile my pains and insecurities. Finding words he once physically wrote on paper, again recognizing there was a moment where he thought to take that time to compose, that I was on his mind and he genuinely wanted to comfort and provide – it’s reassurance from the grave to keep me moving forward.

However painful the purge, that love discovered is priceless.