An Open Letter to Ed Strunk

Dear Dad,

Another Christmas Eve arrives. Here I am in Madison, now far enough from you that you're probably breathing much easier, I'm sure. No more missives from me, now that I've finally decided to abandon the effort of finding you, but for this last letter. Someday, I'm thinking, you'll come across this and thank baby Jesus that your son has, at last, forgiven you.

At least, that is what I am giving you permission to think. You can die now; you can die now "as people were meant to die, hearing the music, being the music, roaring." That is from Charles Bukowski, a writer I want you to know became my mirror in your absence. Hey, don't feel bad about me raising myself with the words of a drunk; at least there was love, all kinds of love, a world full of black love across the sheets of blank pain.

So, go live, and go die, and enjoy being freed from this genetic albatross known as Christopher. I place a kiss to your ring, and bid you peace in your tragedy; I hope you find magic now.

You are dead to me.
I will sing for you.

Cheers,
Chris

permalink