my truth

my father was a writer, even before I was even born. I guess you could say from a literary perspective he knew the world better than we knew it, in a way that was sacred. He could speak eloquently enough to describe the human condition. He knew the struggles we all had and could describe them in great detail. When I was young, he sat me down and he said, “Son in life there are twists and turns, turns that lead to overwhelming outcomes. We can grow wisdom in old age and have a family or we do neither, but that’s not what matters. What matters is how you live your life. Will you live life on your own terms, son?” 

I never answered my father's question. I didn't know how to and I never had the chance. He died in a car crash before I turned fourteen. I never got to say goodbye or tell him my secret. He got in his car to go to his book publisher. He was getting ready to publish a new book. The book was called ‘His Inner Truth.’ The book was about a boy and his struggle of coming to terms with his sexuality. I read the book and it was filled with passion, almost life-like. I could tell he created his one masterpiece before he died. 

The book took off, mainly because my father died. I didn’t blame the publisher; they didn’t know my father was going to die or advertise his death to sell a book. The masses just gravitate toward the book, like a moth to a flame. The publisher paid my mother a pretty penny, though she never got over my father. He was a special person. I just wish me and my mother could have gotten a final goodbye, she needed it and I needed it. 

At age nineteen I was doing through his old stuff. I convinced my mother to sell it. I knew we didn’t need the money, but we also didn’t need a constant reminder of what we lost. He was dead and we couldn’t change that, but we could move on and that started wIth selling his stuff. The stuff my father had was, well, it was eccentric. Even though it was the twenty-first century my father loved writing on a typewriter. He said it gave him nostalgia for the good old days. The old thing was dusty since my father stopped writing on it. It laid on his desk, which was also dusty since my mother wanted to leave everything the way it was.

I took all the belongings off his desk, putting them in boxes. The last thing left on his desk was a typewriter and as I lifted it a post-it note laid under the typewriter. I analyzed it at first, not knowing what it was, as I looked closer it became more clear what it was. My father had left a note before he died, a note I had never seen before. I was speechless, thoughts raced through my mind. Should I have told my mother? That was a brief thought that slipped in my mind, at that moment. I didn’t let it linger though. I quickly picked up the post-it note. I read it in a muttered manner. If my mother overheard me; I wouldn’t have known if she could understand me. “Remember to take Mark to our secret spot and give him his present.” 

My jaw almost dropped. The note was labeled a week before he died. I almost forgot our spot at the library. My father would let me pick out books I liked, books that I thought made me a better person. I would take those books and place them underneath the bookshelf, to make sure no one else could take them home and read them. It was a cute father fun activity I and he would do. I almost forgot about it. I hadn't been there since I was ten years old. I stopped going, I told my father I was told to go to the library with him. Ever since he died I regretted not going with him anymore. 

I had to see what my father left me. I just hoped it was still there. We lived in a small town, and I didn’t have a car or a driver's license, all I had was a bike that my mother got me a year after my father passed away. The bike was still in good shape because I knew how to take care of it. I learned that from my father. He always took care of his stuff, making sure it was in pristine condition. 

I made my way to the library and found our spot. I looked for the present my father left. I bent down to find a book, it was a copy of my father's newest book. Inside was a note. I read it out loud, as I slowly broke into tears. “Son, this book is dedicated to you, my special son. I know this may come as a shock but I always knew. I am giving you this book so you can always know to be yourself and to live life on your own terms.” I wept, not knowing how to feel. I wanted to tell him I was gay, but I never had the courage, never the drive, and I never thought I could tell him. I could not believe he always knew. He knew more about me than myself. I learned that day that my memories of my father would never be the same. I looked at him in an entirely new light. I knew at that moment reading that book had changed my whole life, forever. I took the book and took it home. I hoped one way I could pass it down to my kid. Days went by, then months and I never forgot my father's words or the message he was passing on to me. His life lessons were ingrained in me.