Mother and father were dreamers. They dreamed and dreamt their lives into reality.
I wrote those words one year ago today upon the dedication of this blog. A blog dedicated to the collective works of our mother and father, two artists, from the sole collaboration they ever did. That blog which you have just finished reading the 52nd entry of. Short stories posthumously found in the attic of their house. A house we grew up in. Stories of love, love, loss, the horrors between as well as outside of this, and the overcoming power to continue and grow in spite of all of this. Dreams. Moments of critical clarity and achievement: self acknowledgment.
How appropriate that the last of father’s written words, mother’s intrical, rare charcoal renderings, would be about that very topic of which my first sentence in this blog series was writ: dreams. Like father, like son. In attempting to cope with their loss, how eloquent, like bookends, how tidy it is to end with a short story so clearly pinpointed to us, his two children. But beyond that “two”, it is to all the readers of his life’s work. To all the seeds of her life’s work. To all in partnership or to those looking to partner with. Take stock! To all of the worlds many dreamers. Wake in this! Our father and mother whose art are a heaven, we wake to a new day and take stock in it. Today. Together. Family.
For that is precisely what we all are. To those of you whom have read each week with us this collection, these lessons and stories from our parents, thank you. You are family. You are. And remember that as you walk. Remember that as we post no more from this collection. We are all together still. This world is full of many great men and women. Take stock in them! We are all stronger together. Be vocal. And embrace the support you deserve, support those who deserve to be given it.
And to mother and father whom created us, two grateful, doting children, what can we say? Words of which you can no longer hear. But from our lips doth part a greatness. A great thankfulness.
And so the blog comes to a close. As only those who’ve lost know… it is not easy to express goodbye. It is not easy to bear the burden to merely cope daily, to move on, and at times it is improbable to grasp the end of all that was a relationship: a life. Our parents live on through their works. This is a uniquely special gift. We were blessed to have such perfectly imperfect people to bring us into this world. To have their works to visit again and again. But, tho it is of them, it is not them. They are truly missed. Like most, they were gone too soon. But these words, these visuals, we shall cherish above all else they wrote, sculpted, drew. Our parents were artists of education. They were the most studious and learned people we had the pleasure to know. For these teachers never stopped learning. And we could not be more honored to have shared this never before seen work weekly with you. To continue to teach as well as learn. To grow and grow and grow.
Time clips on. And so, as their collections last post stated the time, 11:11, so must we now sign off on a year of short story lessons. We must travel into a new time. So must we clock out from the works of theirs and focus on our own goals, truth and admission. We, their children, move head strong into a world often unkind. But we move head first into that world with the power of us. Today. Together. Family.
Time marches on. And at 11:12 I post this. We shall live a lifetime to it’s fullest. Thank you for reading with us the works of our parents. Thank you my brothers and sisters. Thank you, again and again.
With all the love we can muster, go forth. May the collection here propel you as much as the knowledge that we are with you in spirit hopefully will.
And I laugh, because as I write this, me in a moment of sadness at yet another end–the end of a blog enlisted to distract the end of our parents–I must acknowledge the moment as it is, for as I write to you in this moment, out slips the dedication from our parents. And with this beginning, this new ebb of time, this 11:12, I here shall leave you with the end. An ending fitting for a king and queen, with the words expressed by them. Upon the last letter of their children, I dedicate through their own humble beginnings of this entire collection. I state the end from their dedication here:
“Dedicated to our joys, our loves, our momentous children. Everyone has a moment remembered above all else. You are ours, for you are MOMENTS Of US.