Tuesday, October 17, 2017

9:00 AM | missing you

Guest post by Dean Francis Alfar












I miss blogging. I miss the length of posts and the ability to imbed images within the body of the post. I miss the sense of ownership and uniqueness - how I would change my layout from time to time to reflect something I thought or felt. I miss the ease of search. I miss reading other blogs, especially the long reads, and learning consistently more about another person or their interests. Once in a while, on Facebook, I'll break the dictum on short status messages and post something long - because sometimes, length is needed, and we all need long reads once in a whlle.

missing the point

If everything is better stated briefly, then I am not long for this world. I inhale to exhale worlds in words.

missing the past

When my eldest daughter was five years old, she offered up the usual challenge.

"It's time to tell stories, Dad," she said. "You tell one and I'll tell one."

"Oh, no," I told her, shaking my head. "I don't have a happy one in mind."

"What kind do you have?"

"Well, it's kind of bittersweet."

She expelled a sigh then looked me in the eye. "I like those too - but they make me cry."

"They make me cry too, you know."

"Is it really, really sad?"

"Well, not really, really sad," I said.

"Ok, then you can tell your story - but mine will be really, really exciting. An adventure, okay?"

"Ok," I agreed. "But you go first."

And she launched into an adventurous romp featuring lost crayons attempting to find their way back home, helped by the objects that shared similar hues.

I applauded when she was done, then cleared my throat and made ready to begin my own story when she raised a hand to stop me.

"Why?" I asked her. "Don't you want to listen to mine?"

"I do, Dad," Sage said as she nuzzled her way into my arms. "But I want to be here right next to you because I know your story is sad."

And so I told the story and my little girl listened. When we got to the really, really sad part, she looked up to me with tears in her eyes, which provoked my own.

"Can't this story be a little bit happy?"

"Wait and see."

And I finished the story, with a little happiness, and held the girl I loved so much, and we shared that moment after a story is told when only perfect silence is acceptable.

"That made me cry, Dad, but I really really liked your story," she told me later. "Now let's tell Mommy and make her cry."


Dean Francis Alfar used to blog at Notes From the Peanut Gallery. He would have posted this there, but he cannot recall his password anymore. He spends his time running Kestrel, writing fiction like his novel Salamanca [out now in a new edition from Anvil], and dancing.

Labels: blogging, writers

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