Devin Dearing Preston: NYC writer, playwright, and storyteller

Dear Flynt,

July 20, 2011

I miss you.

Not all the time. Not even everyday.

But in moments I never expect. When I’m washing the bath tub, say. Finishing my final pass with the damp sponge. There you are, your warm rumbling Texas drawl in my head approving.”That’s my girl” Reminding me that “Anythin’ worth doin’, is worth doin’ right. ‘Specially cleanin’ tubs.”

You always did crave perfection. It is an ever present standard in my life to this day. Despite your absence, I cannot bring myself to cease striving to make you proud.

Although, I’m not sure how one pleases a dead man. All of my efforts are undeniably in vain, because you lived your last proud day well over 6 years ago. And yet, it remains that part of my reality that still feels the most unreal.

I’m not pleased with how we left things, frankly. Fragmented and unresolved. Complicated and aching. Permanetly wanting. Years of conversations never to be had. Endless moments never to be shared. The ever present longing. For what we had, for what we never had, and for what we never will come to have.

I miss you.

So, I’ve decided to write you as an experiment. Say all that was left unsaid. I might be ready to begin to say goodbye. Might. I’m making no promises: to write, to let go, to move on. Nor do I garentee that everything I have to say will be kind. But I need you to know that I will say only what must be said.

I love you very much, Daddy. Still. I promise that will never change. I look forward to writing you again. Soon I hope.

Your loving daughter always,

Dearing

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Categories: Letters I Will Never Send

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