Farewell

~Jean Paul Richter

Our goodbye was written slow.  Ideas were added to a marinade in my mind, where they swam for hours without rinsing.  

I’m not an emotional writer.

I often write without pause; thought in time with keystroke.  I can type for twenty minutes, crack my knuckles, then type for twenty more.

Yet it is surprising to me, though I’ve been doing this for nearly a year, that I routinely catch myself on the verge of tears as I am reading something to Daisy for the first time.  I never sob, just speak with sudden seams, surprised because I did not feel a thing as I was writing.

The farewell was different.

From the moment I sat at the keyboard, my heart was burning fuel. 

Any regular reader of Writer Dad knows the value I place on words.  I’ve never written a post just to publish.  The letter needed to explain what has happening, along with the why, and the when, and the how.

The letter is a document that will stay in our family forever.  A thousand words that sparked our migration.  Not to place to much portent on a straightforward adios, but I soon realized I wasn’t writing a simple goodbye.  

I was penning a farewell address.

Everything pooled into the first draft.  I typed without ties.  Words sat for a day, then multiplied.  When the farewell was full, I sliced it in half, rinsing it of every dispassionate syllable.  

Our departure served also as introduction.

Our families know me as Mr. Sean, a wordslinger for sure; but only from the pie hole.  They’ve never known me to throw it down quite like I do for you guys.

The last thing I wanted to deliver was our weekly newsletter.  

Nothing clinical.

I planned to place our parents behind the eyes of our passion so that they might not only understand our intention, but cheer us along.

Here are three excerpts to set the tone:

If there’s something I thought I knew then, that I’m certain of now, it’s that Daisy and I were born to work in tandem.  Like bow to fiddle and key to lock, symphonies sing and doors open when our thoughts find themselves breathing into open air.  

If we want the equation to balance, we must alter the variables on either side.  Otherwise, we will never render dreams to reality.

A life well lived is done with an open mind, and a readiness to risk.  Though this conclusion casts our future into uncertain shadow, it is the shade we require. 

The letter did exactly what it needed to do.  The response was next to perfect.  

I couldn’t have written that letter two months ago.  I wouldn’t have had the need or the ability.  I’m learning fast.  Practicing every day.  Here, for you guys.

Thank you all for being here, and driving me toward something better.

Writer Dad

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