Letters From a Father

Letters from a Father to his son, Blade Poppertawn

July 7th, 2012

Son, how I've missed your glossy frown and your sandy whispers. Have the kind of birthday you were born to have. This is your day. Sorry I can't be there to teach you how to swim. 

December 12th, 2012

Son, you've always been a deep thinker. And this is demonstrated so wonderfully in your photograph taken by your late mother. I gaze into your dreadlocked eyes and peer listlessly, that is, without list, into your bored face. Each lock of dread from top thy head makes me miss you more and more. 

July 12th, 2013

Son of mine, I am sorry I am late to wishing you a happy birthday. Know that you are special to me, you are something important to me. I've never defined what it is about you that makes you shine, but I know that you do. You take up a small part of my heart, and a smaller part of my lungs, and a larger part of my liver. Part of me came alive when you were born, and that part of me will die when you are buried in the Great Cemetery. I know your days are numbered, son. All our days are numbered. There is no better day to remember this than our birthday. I know yours was last Sunday, but I was on the road for 11 hours that day. I tried to call you but you have no phone. Anyway, it's getting late. Almost 9:30 here. You know Father likes to get his sleep. Just kidding, son. I'm going to go find a Taco Bell, then I'm going to work off those calories with push ups. You'll be proud of your old man, just like I'll be proud of you.

July 7th, 2015

Son, you emit a glow unlike any others. A sleek shine is always with you, haunting you, surrounding you, warding off evils and enslavement and emotions, but playing tricks with your consciousness. Much of what you see and hear and experience and feel is not real. Most of your memories are false, most of your friends are gone, most of your dreams are only dreams. We tried to fix you at birth, but there's no procedure for this. You will forever live this way, but I will forever love you like a good friend, because you are my son. Happy birthday.

July 7th, 2016

A candle burns on my patio where I celebrate my son's coming into being. Under the cloudy sky settles a puddle of gutter water, gently poked by the rain to remind it of its roots, of its connection to the sky ocean. That is me, poking you--my boy, reminding you where you come from. A dead wasp falls into the water and microorganisms rush to consume its body, just as you consume everything you touch. 

 

A soft tune can be heard not far off, a familiar one you've heard before. It is a tune from your childhood, a melody I whispered in your ear as you slept under the rug, sounding like a swarm of bees, or locusts. It slowly puts you to sleep, and as you doze off you smile and pee on yourself, content with the knowledge we have gone once more around the Sun. What a comforting thought. Birthdays should never be forgotten. Light your candle and send me a picture. Please check your email.

July 7th, 2017

Wet night, heavy drip, you are the blade of grass that cuts the morning open. Celebrate the smell of vegetation and the glory of wisdom and the grandeur of sight. My beloved boy, if I have taught you anything then teach it back to me. I'm hungry to learn. So long since I've heard your voice, though if bad dreams count I have heard you often and recently. I wish I could reach out and tap you softly.

July 8th, 2019

You moved me when first you emerged from the womb, you soothed me when first you learned to talk and your voice was unexpectedly light. I have memories of you that I've lost within the wrinkles of my brain, never to be recovered. When certain smells accost me, I am drowned by grief at the thought of you. People say magic is real and I disagree, because I've seen you, my son, and I have felt you from afar, and I know there can be no such thing as magic as long as you are on this planet. The words you've said to me have cut so deep that the wounds became physical. Psychic pain has festered in me. You have made friends of those who threw cream at me, you have fallen in love with those who wrote degrading songs about me, you have applied for internship opportunities with those who stole my ideas and received awards for my efforts, you have made shoes with soles the shape of my face so that all your life you may walk upon your father's visage. My son, you have caused me great pain. And still I pay your tuition. Still I write you letters. Still I list your strengths by my bedside. You are a wolf in the clothing of sheep, and you are also my boy. Happy birthday, regardless of your low character.

July7th, 2020

Hello, spatter of my womb. It has been months since last we spoke and the terms were not good. If I recall right, you had made insults on my character and ridiculed my physical strength, without regard for my mental and spiritual and shamanistic strength, which helped shape me into the thing I am. 

 

You then cast abuse at my household and those who have come in contact with me. When you burned my colleague in your wicker giant I turned the other cheek. When you hurled stones at my boat I pretended you were armless. When you robbed the bank and took the money I pay my bills with, I opened a new account. I am done being the better man. I will lower myself to your level and meet you in combat on the open field. I hope this day finds you well, for it might be your last. 

Happy birthday, son.

July 7th, 2021

Happy birthday, my boy. I learned to count only so I could count the days and years of your life. Now that I can count I have started to count everything, like the hours you spend in your combat simulations, the nights you are out with the shadows, the miles from shore you row my boats before leaving them to the sea, and the pounds I have lost in fretting over your actions. Be a good son and turn your life around. 

Love, dad.

Letters from a Father to his son, Corbin Platters

December 17th, 2012

Each day of the week, son, I pluck a guitar string with the letters of your name colored on it. On Sunday I play an entire chord, fresh and new, just for you. By the end of the year I've composed an album of tunes just for you. This day is your day, and in two weeks the music of your unyielding spirit will be heard.

December 17th, 2013

Yon creature of my intestine, blessing of my womb, how happy I am to have birthed you so long ago into a world so cold. Your hands are tarantulas that carry your flimsy body. You were born without legs, and I hope the robotic limbs that cost us an arm and a leg have served you well in your 33 years of life. If you find a shovel and a motor, we'd love to see you for Christmas. Happy birthday... Son.

December 20th, 2014

My boy. Your big day was not long ago, and for whatever reason it slipped my mind. There are years I forget about you and I neglect our relationship, our bond, our blood. But those years are gone. I remember what a joy you were to watch huddled in the corner with your mechanical legs, your wet and shiny eyes, your foul grin, your corrupt flesh excreting a vivid miasma. Many homes have been left vacant after your touch. Many individuals have been left despondent, unresponsive, or hungry after their first encounter with you. You are my son and I love you like a good friend unseen for years. Stay wild in your youth and grow intimidating in your years to come. Happy birthday.

December 17th, 2015

Dewdrops drip from your eyebrows. Sunshine melts your smile. My blood runs through your veins. Son, I touch your forehead with my own.

 

I remember for years after your birth you wanted a salt collection: mountain salt, sea salt, cave salt, tear salt, carpet salt. Though I've never forgotten of your existence, I have been absent from your life from time to time, sometimes lost in studies, sometimes lost in opium. Allow me to return to your life with my arms full of salt, for you, my boy. I have plundered exotic regions of their salt supply, have stolen salt from the tears of babes, have mined for the precious substance in caves so deep the mind snaps at the thought. Extend your arms to me, boy. I have made your dreams a reality, and I am back in your life for good. Happy birthday. I hope I will see you for Christmas.

December 17th, 2017

Hello vessel from the deep. Boy with a heart of defeat. Being of carbon and iron. Your dark smile is a hundred acres of tingling ominous sensation. You exist to pollinate. Bless you. Happy birthday. I never regret bringing you into this world, even on bad nights.

September 17th, 2019

Hi, son. Hope you are well. I'm canceling your cable and rent payments next week. Please get a job.

December 17th, 2019

Little lad, bad lad, my boy lad

Sit in my lap lad, the lap of yer dad, lad

This is where I first met you, my boy

Upon my lap, when I was younger than you

I laughed when you laughed

I spilled when you spilled

I prepared you for success from the day you were born

We knew you would out live us all

And here you are

 

 

Letters from a Father to his son, Torfan Brusk

April 21st, 2017

Wow, my boy. How wide your arms have growen, how solid your core has becomen. How bestial your voice has faellenm. Once yaen wath but a boy, now tharn arth a beheaemuth. As I crawl to thine maether's grave I think back to thoughts of ye. Ye never hath let thy father growen sad or weepy. Bless yeu, my bibi.

April 21st, 2018

Hello entity. You fell wet and warm from between my legs 24 years ago today. I've told neighbors about you, have hired bards to compose worthy ballads about you, and still the world does not shower you with the adoration you deserve. A physique like yours demands respect and fear. I have seen you crush Kardashians into piles of bone and meat. I have watched your lips consume others' lips. I have seen you dance in the night. You threw a car off a bridge with Beyoncé in the back seat. You've done it all and your name remains hidden in obscurity. Let me tell you how much I love you. It is very much. I will never forget what you are capable of.

April 21st, 2020

Torfan, my muscle man, my pound for pound mound of flesh. I long to sit beside you once more, my boy of the womb. I hope that you grow more swollen with each day. When I hear a passerby speak of meatloaf or cake my thoughts drift to you. Your birthday is a day I write of in my logbook. There is no number higher than the number that describes the size of your bicep.

 

 

Letters from a Father to his Daughter Sagittarius (Sage) Karma Trainhouse

December 12th, 2012

35 years ago today you were born of my womb and my seed. An offspring so challenged by the  limitations of boxes and meadows that your head grew sideways for years until you lost your sight and your sense of touch. But forever I have loved you, daughter, and forever I will cherish you as a gift from the ungods, nuzzled up against my heart. Wherever it is you live today, I hope someone gives you a cake with frosting that twinkles under the sun, like a lonely icon of your existence. Do not come home to visit, but speak to me often on Facebook so that our relationship might remain a barely ignited, slowly creeping flame that never bursts but never burns out. 

December 12th, 2013

Honey blossom, totem pole, marvel of a thousand ears of corn, dehydrated worm home, I give one hundred and fifty sacks of grain and barley to you on this special day. Festivities shower down on you like flakes of snow and bread. 

December 20th, 2014

Hello, daughter. Forgive my lateness, but happy birthday. If you recall, this is the celebration of the day your face grew in, which was 8 days after you spilt from the womb. So I'm not late. Every cloud has your name on it if you look at it through the right eyes. This year I built a canoe for one and am taking it down the Woodpecker Streams until I reach the Midnight Tower where I will hang myself in memory of the trips we used to take. If I do not die after one night I will paddle up the streams to return home and write about the expedition in my memoirs, which I have mostly finished. Please look to the sunset and speak my name when you see the green flash.

December 12th, 2016

Honey brisket, nimble storage locker chef, dearest daughter. These are but a few of the titles bestowed upon you from birth. Take some time off work and plan a vacation to the East. A birthday isn't a birthday without dangerous trips. Pack lightly. Eat little. Sleep deep. While you are away I will index your talents and qualities and build an encyclopedia of Sage. Sweet wishes to you, leafmutt.

December 12th, 2017

Daughter, bowl of wheat, canister of beauty, seasoned sprout sandwich... You are the reason I wake up and go to work, so I can send water to your lawn, juice to your cooler. I love you as a friend. Keep warm, stay well, keep your shirt up.

December 12th, 2018

Girl, your glow, your smell, your quake. You raise a barrel of smell from the earth. How I ever underestimated you is odd.