The blank page

I am a writer, compelled to fill the blank page. Like most writers, the unblemished page is my joy and my enemy. It accuses, attracts, repels, chokes and frees. It is my shame and judgement, my critic, and my best friend. It is a loving bitch, and a grievous delight. As we approach year's end, like most humans I look back over this strange amalgam of days. The year began literally with my father's death and it's color soaks each day in blue, the sadness sinking into my bones. Our societal norm is to handle grief, sadness, even bad news poorly, to feel inadequate in the face of it and I've fought a life long battle with shame over being a very emotional being--the irony is that my father's death frees me from the primary perpetrator and originator of this feeling. There is a joy in the release it provided for him from his misery of a life, and for me in choosing to deal with him despite his compulsions. It's exhausting to assure someone as powerful as he was that you love them, over and over and over. And before the end I stopped trying. I miss him. I miss his dumb jokes, and the times when he was in good spirits. I miss his red cabbage with Frangelico and I'm sorry that he wouldn't get up off the recipe. I grieve that we didn't spend more time bonding over our love of art and music and I miss him teasing me about my love of the Patriots and the Celtics. I miss his humming as he walked around and find myself doing the same with the same melody. I miss him playing "Satin Doll," and "Misty," and his Errol Gardner growl. I miss our never ending conversations about the nature of love and why neither of us had much luck with relationships. I miss him. But I don't regret my relief that he's gone. Our tangled knots made the holidays rather hellish. As most children of divorce will tell you, the tug and pull that begins with the first holidays after separation can continue throughout adulthood especially if one is, like me, emotionally susceptible to it. So I cautiously look forward to these first holidays without him. Will he haunt me, slightly? I'm sure of it. Will I miss his gruff affection hidden under ill humor and bitterness? Probably. When I saw him, I would make sure I was wearing lipstick so I could leave my lip prints on his forehead when I kissed him hello. Seeing them there throughout the day strengthened my resolve to be loving throughout any onslaught of rage or abuse. I tried, in the early days after he died, to hold at bay my urge to write about our complicated relationship, feeling that it would take me over and move other subjects aside. But of course, what you resist persists. So I'll leave some lipstick prints on one of the ornaments on my brother's Christmas tree to remember that brown bald head and honor my feelings of sorrow, with the intention of remembering the gifts dad gave me while acknowledging the great wrecking ball he was. And I'll be the emotional being I was created to be, eventually unfettered.