Dear Salem

I opened my computer and thought about doing some work. I also though about playing some video games to pass the time, but this trip I'm currently taking has done something to my heart that I felt I should share with you. It's so easy to say how many things I'm "supposed" to be doing right now, when the only thing I'm really supposed to be doing is staying at home and looking after you. It tears me up that I take trips like this, and it's going to tear me up next time when I have something like ten days away with only two short days in the middle to visit. I signed up for this and I am doing something I'm really proud of, but it all comes back to you, sweetheart. And, I already miss you so much.

Earlier this morning, your mom and I walked you to school. You're a kindergartener now and your teacher is Mrs. Coon. She's no Mrs. Morgan (your pre-school teacher), but she is still very kind and wants the best for you just like we do. Everyday you give us the biggest hugs and we even do this nose-nose thing. I wonder if you'll even remember it by the time you read this.

I wouldn't stop the time if I could, no matter how tempting that might be. You wouldn't want to stay this age forever, but boy oh boy is this a fun time to be your dad. I'm not scared anymore, although I used to be. I used to be afraid to see you hit a certain age when suddenly you'd stop liking me the way you do. I know friends will come into your life and they are very lucky to have you in their world. I always thought you'd make a very good friend because you've been my best friend since I met you.

I want to talk about something that I don't tell many people, and I hope it makes sense to you. Sometimes I think my love for you is similar to the way that God feels about us. When that thought reaches my mind, I cry a little because it's such a beautiful feeling. I know that I am plugged into something so special because you have allowed me into your world. I promise to do a great job being your father and I promise to take care of you for as long as I can. You'll always have a friend in me, Salem. You've done more for me than you could ever possibly understand. I love you. I LOVE YOU!

-Dad

Bilipot

 Maybe it's a long, long time ago and I've been dreaming. Sam (Lily) is driving off down that dirt road by Dunn's tomb where we all dared each other to visit after midnight. We have nicknames for our cars; your van Puppy, Sam's car Bilipot. I always loved that name and even named a garden-dwelling cat Bilipot when I lived in Turkey. He was six floors down and always looking up for me to drop treats. But, maybe that was all a dream too. And, as I get out of the car to pee, Bilipot drives off hastefully with a car full of giggling teenagers as I'm left in the absolutely surreal dark. 

Garden

 Your thoughts are beautiful things and you should treat them as such. They are yours and yours alone until you share them, and you have the choice not to. It's okay to keep some of those beautiful little thoughts to yourself because your mind is but a vast garden where seeds of imagination are planted and fruits of hard work and discipline may ripen. Sometimes other people's thoughts enter our gardens and whether those thoughts are fertilizer or pest depends purely on the company we keep. Thoughts can be expressed without words, and I suggest we do so from time to time because words fail us, do they not? Even writing this silly little post tempts me with thoughts that others will think that I'm less than I really am. I know who I am, at least I think I do. That's good enough for me because my thoughts are a green garden with sunflowers always facing the sun. You'd get lost in a garden like that; I do all the time. Life can pretty beautiful if you think it is.

Poetry

What an awful time to be writing. Elena is out frantically searching for a specific type of glue for her project, the car isn't packed yet for the trip, I played with my phone instead of grading papers the morning, and the boy is about to be up. Off into the forest tomorrow. The rivers. I'm guided by rivers.

I want to write poetry; for me, not you.

I feel like I might have something to say.

:)

"Daddy was born because we needed music." 

I wish there was a cliff

right behind our house.

I would sit on the ledge

every night

and play a little song on my flute

just to say goodnight to the crashing waves 

below.

Old Mission

Yesterday I found myself standing in front of Old Mission Lighthouse, looking inland from the perspective of a frozen lake. I came out to make a fun little video of me playing an ocarina by a snowman, but only seconds after playing those final notes I fell into a deep an utter despair of depression. I could barely speak, barely move. I felt cold but sweaty in the hands. I acted weird around my family, and the silence of the frozen bay entered my brain like a parasite killing of any sense of guard I've placed around any raw unprocessed emotions I had yet to sort through. It was intense and confusing, and I would still be floating in the mystery of that experience if it had not been for my mother sending me a picture of a painting of that lighthouse that hangs on the walls of her home. My dad fancied that lighthouse as one of his favorites, and the painting verified that I was indeed standing quite a ways out into the frozen lake. 

Maybe I was visited by a ghost. Maybe I was the ghost.

That night I fell asleep into intense dreams about a *friend from a long time ago. 

*Demirci