I found, a clay. . .coin, I had made as a child. With his name in it. I remembered cutting symbols into it, to decorate it. My fingerprints were baked into the clay from where I had worked on it as a child. . . He had kept it. He really cared about his children. .
I held it. . . put it down, and thought of a place to keep it. When I picked it up again, it broke in my hands. . . He had kept it for, more than twenty years; moved it to five different houses. . . and I couldn't even hold it, and it shattered, just in my gentle touch. When I had carried it to the place I had chosen, it was already in six pieces. In some ways, it was no longer recognizable to me: the memory that leapt out at me, of being a child, my hands pressing into the clay. . It was gone. There was that memory.
I've thought, having these things. . these, links to my past. Would comfort me. Somehow, I thought it being a real thing that happened; that it kept happening, echoing through my life. Yet I feel like there's a hole, instead of. . . warm feelings hugging me. I would rather all these old artifacts had vanished, long ago, and I was just on my own, living with just what I have today. . . going through these old things. . . I hope someday I'll feel better. I've wanted to appreciate my father's life. But I just miss him, the times we shared, times I can't make more of. . . I'm glad I live my own life, but I miss him, too. . in some ways, I am glad to be sad, thinking about him. It was such a different kind of sadness. I feel sad, but at one with the world, too. .
Maybe I've been living my life wrong. But I am living my life, for what I believe in. Everything feels much too dark for me. The memories I thought would, protect me, are a painting made of ashes, that I'm watching being blown by the wind. Someday, I'll be ashes, too, and I'll be blown by wind. .. I think I may like that, more than living, but I'm still going to try to enjoy being alive.