My father died earlier this year. I have spent the rest of the year considering that fact as we were never close. I decided to just sit down and write something. I posted it to Medium and it appears to have struck a chord, no doubt because we all will have to consider the death of a parent at some time in our lives.
Here's an extract:
I am almost fifty nine years old. The tattoos on my arms and shoulders still look fresh yet when I raise my hands the skin of them appears striated, rugged veins create empty fjords. A sprinkling of tiny liver spots point to their future and mine; a finger on my right hand sports an arthritic second knuckle, a result of my bass playing style I reckon. It looks like a small barren mountain that a miniature Mars Rover might be sent to explore; at night I am awoken by a dull pain in my right knee, the declamation of a joint that I injured years ago while exercising. My doctor would like me to lose twenty pounds. I do not take any prescription drugs, never have. My face sports perma-stubble.
Read the rest of the essay here.