From Me to Them

Here's my latest post. It's done in the style of a lighthouse keeper, in a small rocky outpost (that has a Starbucks next door), that is writing letters for his young son (whom is completely fictional, but writing to a pretend son passes the time) to read when he's grown up and wants to learn what his father was like as a young man. Also, the lighthouse functions completely by computer, he's just there in case tourists come by to take pictures and buy miniature wooden lighthouses (made in China) that he sells at small desk in the corner. Tourists rarely visit. There are better lighthouses available to take pictures of.

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May 19: Son, one day you'll no longer be the young sprite on your mother's knee, whom with a twinkle in his eyes, tells me, "Dad, one day I'll grow up to be bird". One day, you'll actually be a bird, because anything you put your mind to, you can do, son. I jest, of course. You can't be a bird when you grow up. But you're a kid, and kids are stupid, and say stupid shit all the time. But those days are behind you now. Now, most likely, I've past away, and you're reading this notes that I've left for you, to come to grips with the giant, gaping hole in your life that my passing has left.

Speaking of giant, gaping holes, I hope you're taking care of your mother. Of course I jest: I assume she's dead too, because I'd have to outlive that chain smoking, bingo playing, rum drinking slut. God rest her soul. She didn't know any better, because she was so stupid. But people will be people, so no matter how many nice pairs of earrings you give them on your anniversary every year, you can't make them change their deep down marrow. It's just a shame she had to pawn those earrings for money for bingo. I could really have used that money for something else, like thinsulate gloves. It gets cold in a lighthouse come the winter months.

Right now, though, Spring has thawed out our old familiar rocky outcrop. The green stuff on the rocks seems somehow less sickly yellow-green, and more...green. It's lovely in the morning. Trust me. If you had spent more nights out here with me during the early Spring, you'd know. But you didn't. Many were the hours I had no one to watch the sun rise with. I'll be honest, it's made me bitter time and time again. You should really be ashamed of yourself. I'm a good man. I deserve better.

Really, I would have spent more time with you if you were a lighthouse keeper, and I wasn't. It's called courtesy. I hope you've learned a bit of it since I've died. If you haven't, well, you'll probably die lonely too. That's just the way the world works.

This morning, as most mornings, I walked down those lonely stairs down to the base of the lighthouse, walked out and basked in the Sun's early glow, and then, while the Starbucks next door was at it's busiest, I grabbed an edition of yesterday's newspaper off one of the tables that nobody was reading. I like the comics. Well, mostly. Some people call them the "Funny Pages". Thing is, I can't remember the last time a single comic made me laugh out loud. The world is a sad place when the best the Funny Pages can do is a mild, wry smile. And what is with that "Cathy" cartoon? To pass the time, I white out the words in that comic, and insert my own, funnier dialog in it.

I think if I wasn't a lighthouse keeper, I would have been a cartoonist. No wait, really, I think I would be the President. If you're going to dream, son, dream big. Don't waste it on the small shit. Do that, and you'll end up in some crappy lighthouse in the middle of nowhere next to a Starbucks.

I hope the following entries in this diary continue to inspire you, son, and let you know what your father was really like, under his tough, leathery skin, with his soft, soft hands. Then, you can finally move on with your life, unfrozen from the crippling inertia that I can only assume your life is currently enduring, because of my death, and fluctuations in the local economy.