Devin Dearing Preston: NYC writer, playwright, and storyteller

Hey Flynt,

July 28, 2011

It’s almost one in the morning. I’m up. A night owl, which I get from you and mom, I know. You would still be at the bar, “Tieing one on”, I imagine. Except you accidently tied on one too many. Oops.

I just watched a documentary about family. The secrets we leave behind. The mysteries that we usually never get the chance to unravel with our parents. Only after they are gone does it occur to us that we did want to know these things. It was quite moving. It inspired me to write you.

These days all paths lead directly to you and my limitless unanswered questions.

Part of me wants to continue to walk briskly in the direction of my own happy future. To put you and your legacy as far behind me as possible. Then, of course, there is the other part, that burns to know the real you. What made you so heavy. What drove you so quickly in the direction of your own destruction.

The only answer I have internalized is “Life’s a bitch. And then you die.” But that booze soaked wisdom is basically gaurenteed to careen me over the same cliff that solved all your problems. Not exactly a lesson I need to learn first hand. Witnessing it was quite enough.

So, I have this awesome choice. Keep running and hope the mean mystery doesn’t catch up with me. Or, stop, turn around and look directly at it. Face the ugliness. Look at it in its furocious face. Attempt to understand it. Make friends with it. Accept it as a part of my rich, sometimes sad and complicated story. Or, continue to run and hide forever, the monster hot on my heals, waiting for me to falter so it can get me too.

What would you do? Wait, don’t answer that. I know what you did. You ran. But with a bottle or two to keep you constant company. I’ll admit it. I don’t blame you. However, I know that in order to move forward I must spend sometime looking back. Make sense of it all. Process my real feelings and not how I was suppose to act like I was feeling. The discrepancy between the two is astounding, in case you were curious.

I want to do this. I have to this. I’m sorry if it hurts you. That’s not my intent. I love you this much. Always have, despite everything.

I’m also very scared. I might not be strong enough. You weren’t. “What ever doesn’t kill us, only makes us stronger.” Mom always said that. She knows, she was married to you. Your disease didn’t have a chance to make you stronger. It went the other way. But I still have a fighting chance. Allow me that.

I’m looking to you to be there for me (yes, I know you are dead and that’s not physically possible) and guide me (yes, even though I’m not too sure about after life and all that other nonsense). Because frankly Flynt, you owe me.


Categories: Letters I Will Never Send

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