#drew this while listening to vacation bible school

[wispforever]

do you guys think kakuzu's ever really hard on himself bc of his time in the waterfall and then hidan just unknowingly is himself

bonus under the cut

[absentsdream]

* you know juniper rothschild, right? they’re twenty-five, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, one and a bit years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to siren 042 by lala lala like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole unending expanse of forest coming alive with dread, a loneliness corroding the soul as acid ; splinters in the plush muscle of the palm circled by a blush of irritation ; at the true centre of a tarnished crucifix pendant, a worn pit thumbed from habitual nervousness thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is february 2nd, so they’re an aquarius, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

AESTHETICS.

bloody nose and a split lip to match, ladybugs crawling over the hand, heavy morning fog, creased linen, reading a novel until two a.m., nearly-empty diners, tarnished silver, words kept silent on a bitten tongue, dull sunlight, half-melted novelty candles, pitched ringing in the ear, tattered comics, ivory, nineties sci-fi television, chlorine drying stiff on the forearms.

CHARA INSPO.

carrie white ( carrie ), tender branson ( survivor ), sara sidle ( csi ), annie landsberg ( maniac ), iris ( the student ), toru watanabe ( norwegian wood ), abby ( blood simple )

BACKGROUND.

bethany ellis grows up an only child in manchester, new hampshire. free time is spent cycling around town to pick strawberries from the front garden of a house down the street, becoming lost in state parks over the weekends where pine needles roll underneath her sneaker soles; everything a young girl does. with two loving parents, it is an idyllic childhood.

her parents were happy for a little while. sucked neck-deep in debt from identity fraud, it had slipped their grasp as quickly as it had come about. they did an about-face nearly overnight. classmates signed her a goodbye note before relocating to an odd little commune some ways out of a town up north when she is nine.

she’s now home-schooled, taught more domestic skills than science. she struggled to accept the change; while she wanted to learn about physics and literature graced by the hands of long-dead poets, she was taught to sew until her fingertips were pricked with blood, to take out stains from clothing to the point her hands were raw and angry, and memorise bible verses until they were the only thought left in her head. she would often act out, much to the embarrassment of her parents. too young at the time for any real punishment, they bore the brunt of it at times where she couldn’t see it.

RELIGIOUS FANATICISM TW initiation is on her sixteenth birthday. there’s many details of it she refuses to let known. for some time, the commune stays in the realm of town speculation and wild rumours, a potential church fundraiser for the baptists who think everyone needs salvation, before another girl her age, battered and bruised, manages to flee through miles of forest into town and the sheriff’s department catches wind. 

POLICE TW she’s almost seventeen when torchlight winks through the gaps of the barn’s ant-ridden wooden beams. it’s not a full moon that night. disoriented and huddling with other children on the far side of the barn as the adults chant and float across the dirt floor in a trance, there’s a deafening noise as the rusted iron grooves of the door is forced open and police pour in. many are taken away, her parents included. she’s gifted a crisp new manila folder. in it, a new identity. juniper rothschild. TW END

a family in the middle of nowhere, nevada, take her in. the caseworker overlooks the fact a crucifix graces the wall above her bed’s headboard. they’re nice enough, but to the point it makes her stomach turn. as soon as she’s old enough to, she leaves. 

desperation pushes her far enough to apply for college in new york. there’s one place generous enough to take her, hardship bursary and all; the other is the community college some ways west in carson city. the decision isn’t difficult. but the cold of the city settles into her bones in a way she never comes to accept. eventually, after a grueling engineering degree that tests her organisation limits she moves south. north carolina is warmer. the sun on her face at the pier in irving makes her forget life isn’t as hollow as it often appears.

TRAITS & QUIRKS.

wears long sleeves on the hottest day of the year, and lives in a hoodie, jeans and tattered converse to the point others question whether she’s a glitch in the matrix

makes a conscious effort to cover up, avoid being seen altogether. she’s grown familiar with the idea to draw as little attention to her as possible

following her swim and water polo team years in college, she’s now a junior swim coach for the high school. swimming lets her centre herself

guarded and distrustful. won’t divulge in her family history easily, and keeps the odd urge to journal hidden under lock and key beneath her mattress

lives in a fairly run-down beach shack along dorado road, she thinks the several rats in the roof that call it home are her pets. she talks to them through the ceiling

reading and writing are not easy things for her. numbers come a lot more naturally, with a natural aptitude for it. because she knows she’ll never hold a full time job in her current state, she’s a part time cadd technician at a boutique architecture firm in charlotte

naturally a blond, she rigorously dyes her hair with the cheapest box dye available. it’s fried to death and resembles straw more than actual hair

in more extreme measures to be someone else, her voice has been trained to speak lower than what it is

was dead certain about being a lesbian in her teens, got pissed off when she ended up dating a boy at twenty-two.

paranoid. like, the government is listening into conversations via robotic birds in nearby trees, paranoid. she thinks she’s probably right.

has a gun she bought from a dodgy shop in texas whilst on family vacation in her underwear drawer

almost always reeks of chlorine

horny for class warfare

has a thing for drew barrymore

thinks online mbti quizzes are a military-designed hoax designed to control the masses 

WANTED PLOTS.

cryptid hunting buddies. she’ll pack the coffee thermos, u bring the sandwiches

a previous, fleeting relationship. someone juniper used as an effort to feel more anchored in irving but soon realised it was ugly for her to do people dirty like that :/

she’s fairly lazy, so a person who often sees her like clockwork at cutie’s for midweek dinner

literally anything. let’s plot baybee !

[promiseiwillwrite]

Beginning at about 5 years old, I was ostracized by a Vacation Bible School teacher for asking about Dinosaurs, and heartbroken that I had to choose between going to hell, and never getting to be with God, or believing in Dinosaurs. So I decided I was going to hell at 5, and I didn't think about it too much after that until 7 years old, when with childlike wonder I beheld my mother as she started doing ceremonial magic/wiccan stuff. And all that is Very impressive when you are 7 and you think you are going to hell anyway.

Interested in drawing, drew my first Tarot deck at 10. (it was Eagles and it was lol real bad) Met Loki at 10 as well, did a lot of role playing.

Actually got into a real "Phase" around 12. I had to be a Warrior. That was my only option, because I was not a healer, and I never would be. So I thought warrior thoughts, and Did warrior magical stuff, like fighting demons!

I've always had a Very strong imagination, and went into a very withdrawn teen phase around 13 where it was mostly me, interacting with my internal constructs for about 3 solid years. Very sad, and lonely depressive time. Got taken out of school, and didn't re-surface as a human person until 16 when I met a guy online, and then in real life.

We did a bunch of magic stuff together, making candles and carving wands and staves.

But as young love often does, that went straight to hell after a while.

Went through a period of about 2 years where I just Worked to stay Alive, and didn't do much magic stuff.

A period of about 13 years where all the magic I did was internal, with gods and demons and constructs, and occasionally involved the constructs of a few others, but not often.

Went to college and learned AMAZING SHIT ABOUT BOTANY.

Eventually cast a catastrophic spell to change my life, as long as no one died or got irreparably harmed, no matter what the cost.

One exploded relationship and a horribly suicidal fugue state later, I emerged in another state... Safe, Sane, and Absolutely incapable of accepting or coping with where I had landed.

Planted a garden.

Kept trying and failing to fix myself. Worked with any god that would listen. Deployed a couple of times, and worked on my shit.

Got Therapy. Realized all the Racist, Appropriated Bullshit my parents had taught me about who I was supposed to be magically. Rejected my culture completely and became intensely disenfranchised.

Broke the constructs and all their supporting architecture. Backed away from all my gods.

And here I am... Trying to figure out what the fuck is left, and what to do with it.

I've been thinking a bit about my history as a witch recently, so I wanted to know:

Those of you who started practicing magic as children, what different phases have you been through?

Personally I've been through many, for I am tumblr old... I'll go into that more later, but for now I wanted to open it up to y'all.

[adanaknowsbest]

Spiritual Influences

If you read my post addressing my plans for the upcoming year, you’ll remember that I want to be more active within the pagan tumblr community.  Well, this is the first step!  

I thought that before I post stuff out of my BoS, I would go over some of my biggest influences, so that you guys can get a feel of where I come from and the sort of energy I align myself with.  The only reason I’m sharing this without a BoS page is that I don’t have one addressing this... it’s something that has happened organically over the years, and can be found scattered throughout several of my journals.  

Christianity & Atheism

My introduction to spirituality was not part of my upbringing.  My parents didn’t practice any specific religion (though my Mom said we were Protestants and my Dad’s side were Southern Baptists).  My Mom in particular grew up in a very strict household and had memories of being forced to go to church, whether or not the kids in her family wanted to or believed in their faith.  She decided that her own children should have the freedom to choose.  

My sister, for example, became involved in a local Christian church, and my Mom had no problems whatsoever with sending her (with a friend and her friend’s family) to church.  She did this starting in junior high school (around 11/12 or so) and continued this on through most of high school (up until the latter half of junior year, when she started to get a bit rebellious and wild on the weekends).  

When we were young, my great-aunt (who raised my father after his parents died and acted very much like a grandmother to us) would take my sister and I on vacations to Virginia and Tennessee to visit extended family.  While she didn’t attend church up in Ohio (where we live), she did attend - and loved it! - down south.  Maybe it’s because there aren’t a lot of Baptists where she lived.  Maybe it’s because she was born in raised in Virginia and felt a connection there that was absent in Ohio.  I’m not sure.  But what I do remember is being forced to wear uncomfortable shoes, a dress I hated (all floral and hand-made by my cousin), and forced to sit for hours on an uncomfortable pew and being bored to tears.  Then we were all banished to the basement for more preaching, but this time in in uncomfortable plastic chairs.  

Sure, we were given Precious Moments bibles - which were, admittedly, adorable.  And yes, I even read the bible a time or two (or at least Genesis).  But I never felt that connection.  I didn’t feel drawn to Christianity.  It felt stifling to me, strict, and close-minded.  It squashed individuality and forced everyone to conform to a single world view.  If you were any different, you were welcoming the Devil into your life, arms wide open.  Everything bad was the Devil.  Everything good was the Devil.  My experience was all fear-based and highly misogynistic.  I was to marry and serve my husband, because that’s what God wanted.  I’ll have to go through the pain of childbirth because that’s the result of Eve’s sin.  I just didn’t get what drew people in.  It wasn’t for me.  

Because I felt nothing, I became convinced there was nothing to feel.  I was an atheist for all of a few months to a year.  

Wicca

When I was 13-ish, I pretty much lived at the library after school.  I devoured comics, read like crazy, and engaged in InvisionFree forums (because I didn’t have a computer at my own house).  The day I wandered around my library and found a section on religion was a profound day, because I found Scott Cunningham’s Wicca.  

Everything in that book just felt... right.  It featured very simple explanations (over-simplified in my current view, and some explanations completely lacking in depth) on the basics of Wicca.  The balance and duality felt right.  The fact that you relied on yourself - and not a clergy member - to connect with the divine felt right.  I loved that there was equality among genders, and that it felt so free.  It just hit home for me.  

After that, I identified as Wiccan, though it took many years for me to practice regularly.  

YouTube

But it wasn’t until about 7 years that I discovered the YouTube pagan community.  Once I did, my practice suddenly flourished in leaps and bounds.  People shared experiences, how-to videos, different methods and techniques, correspondences, rituals - even Book of Shadows flip throughs.  I was able to look up videos on different paths within Wicca specifically, and paganism as a whole.  It was wonderful.  I even made a few videos, although the quality was really horrid.  But from that moment on, YouTube claimed a very special place in my heart for sharing spiritual experiences.  

This is when I realized that I aligned far more with the old school thoughts on Wicca than many of the new.  If there was a traditional Wiccan group in my area, you can bet that I would have spent no time in making contact and considering whether or not I would be a good fit for their group.  

Don’t get me wrong; my path is rather eclectic, and I do take ideas from new age and modern Wicca/paganism, as well as a few things I pick up here and there from other magickal systems and paths.  But the core basis of my spirituality always comes back to Wicca, specifically Traditional Wicca (or as much as I can be traditional without formal training through a coven).  

I began doing (very light) research on Celtic and Norse systems, and touched on some Native American practices (mostly stuff like medicine wheels and smudging).  Watching YT videos of those who followed a path more aligned to Voudoun, Hoodoo and Voodoo were interesting - I picked up stuff like Hot Foot Powder and different methods of petitioning.  

When I started following LadyGravedancer, this part of my path opened up wide.  

Paganism (In General)

Back when I first discovered Wicca, it wasn’t as widely discussed or known as it is today (but far better than in the 70s, 80s and 90s).  It was right around the time that Charmed came out (maybe a few years before).  There was a lot of crap on the internet, so there wasn’t really a reliable source of research.  My local library had a very limited selection of books on the subject (other than Scott Cunningham’s Wicca and Living Wicca, and maybe a few mythology books; the rest was all aimed toward Judaism and Christianity), and since I had to go to the counter to request books not in the library, I was too shy and self-conscious to do it.  

But over time, I discovered small pocket communities of pagans that openly shared prayers, invocations, and methods of spellcrafting.  Once I realized that there were more options than just Wicca, it opened a whole new door for me.  

I began doing (very light) research on Celtic and Norse systems, and touched on some Native American practices (mostly stuff like medicine wheels and smudging).  Watching YT videos of those who followed a path more aligned to Voudoun, Hoodoo and Voodoo were interesting - I picked up stuff like Hot Foot Powder and different methods of petitioning.  

When I started following LadyGravedancer (now known as TheLadyGravedancer), among many others, this part of my path opened up wide.  

Hellenic Reconstruction/Hellenismos

This is something of a new influence for me.  I’ve always felt drawn to Ancient Greece.  I loved the mythology of it - I had several books of world and Greek mythology when I was young, and we covered several myths when I was in high school.  Something about the nature of Greek culture and religion really sparked something within.  

But following - or at least researching this path - really began when I found Elani Temperance on YouTube.  From there, I followed a link to her blog, and from there, links to other blogs with a Greek recon or revivalist bent.  I discovered theoi.com, which had TONS of historically accurate information about the culture and cults of various deities.  

I’m the sort of person who doesn’t enter into a new path lightly.  I do a ton of research, and preferably have the opportunity to talk to others who are already on that path about their experiences and practices.  While everything I’ve found thus far rings true to me - except, perhaps, the extensive idea miasma, which I’m still on the fence about, and the fact that Hellenes don’t practice witchcraft/magick - I have yet to actively practice this on a daily basis.  This is due mostly because the books I want that explore Ancient Greek culture and modern worship practices of Hellenismos tend to be a little on the more expensive side.  I have to take financial priorities into consideration before investing money into some of the books on my wishlist.  While $30 (including shipping and handling) may not seem a lot to some people, it’s a lot to me.  Many of the books that I’ve seen recommended as incredibly useful are out of print - some range in the $100s, especially when it’s dry research-based (which, as far as I can tell, tend to be the best resources). 

I have found an incredible Hellenic community on tumblr that offers a range of free information, though!  I’m at a point where I’ve spent the better part of a year reading and mulling over this path - it’s time I just stop with the excuses and dive in.  

Buddhism

Right around the time that I discovered how expensive Hellenismos would be, I decided to look into a path that had always interested me, but one that I had yet to really learn about:  Buddhism.  

It was mentioned as a formative part of CharmingPixieFlora’s channel (now Flora Sage), Kat Taylor’s channel (which I don’t remember the name of now, but it had a fair amount of discussion of how Buddhism was a formative part of her own practice) and a lot of more experienced pagans seemed to cross paths with Buddhism at some point in their spiritual exploration.  I downloaded a few free ebooks and began listening to lectures by Buddhist Monks on YouTube.  

What I found was a beautiful spiritual path, and one that would be compatible with virtually any religion I chose to follow, since it was more of a lifestyle than a religious system.  Ethics and morals - subjects already important and prevalent in my spiritual path - were emphasized and aligned with everything I already believed.  Many tenents of this path were already things that I had worked on, or things I acknowledged that I needed to continue working on (like not gossiping - I can’t help it, my family is crazy, and they’re always up to some hilariously scandalous stuff).  

What are your own personal influences on your spiritual path?  I’d love to know more about it!  Also, feel free to ask me anything - I’m an open book! 

[jackywroteabook]

5 Minute Fiction: “SUPERMAN”

{Just a little taste of the writing you can expect in one of my full-length novels, without the sheer number of hours, willpower, & commitment it takes to finish it. All short stories are representative of my writing voice, content, characters, settings, moods, & themes of my general fiction. Enjoy a quick snapshot of the kind of writing a genuine, award-winning Jacquelyn Eubanks Novel™ has to offer. All short stories take approximately 5 minutes or less to read. Like what you read? Buy my books on Amazon (The Last Summer & The Last Time) and follow me on social media (@JackyWroteABook).}

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I remember him in flashbacks. It’s the little things that trigger memories. Last weekend, I was cleaning out his basement and came across a box full of cassette tapes from the nineties. I pulled out each rectangular tape and examined the labels running along the side, noting the bands and album names written in his blocky handwriting, now faded or smudged. One particular tape caught my eye: Crash Test Dummies’ “The Ghosts That Haunt Me”.

           His favorite.

           Tearing through the boxes almost in a mania, I finally uncovered his old stereo system, the one with three CD slots, huge speakers, and two cassette tape places. I plugged it into an outlet and blew the dust off the tape slot, placed the cassette in, clicked the door shut, and pressed ‘play’.

           A sob caught in my throat as the baritone’s voice wafted through the room, crooning to the piano ballad about Superman.

           I close my eyes and am plunged into a memory of sitting in Daddy’s lap, listening to this song while he sings along, my curly red hair tucked under his chin. I can feel his throat vibrate with the notes and his whiskers scratch like sandpaper against my cheek. He smells of cigar smoke and some kind of cologne that I never learned the name of, but he always wore it. I’m no older than three.

           The hot, silent tears slide down my cheeks like that moment when you reach the top of the rollercoaster and the only place you can go is down, down, faster and faster, at such a steep incline that your stomach drops and you feel like you’re falling and suddenly you can’t contain it anymore, and you just scream.

           My father was a man who didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. His actions spoke volumes.

           We were never rich, but my dad made enough to provide a good life for his family. I remember one Christmas, my family was ready to go on our first real vacation – as in, no tents, sleeping bags, or dehydrated backpacking food. We were going to a ski resort in Montreal, and my sisters and I were so excited to finally see real snow after living in southern Arizona our whole lives. I packed my suitcase full of the essentials days before we had to leave – my stuffed animals, a nightgown with Barbie on it, my blankie, and some Froot Loops – and I was so excited that I could hardly sleep. Two nights before Christmas, Dad called everyone into the living room for a family meeting. He explained that we weren’t going on the trip anymore. He looked somberly down at me and my two little sisters, reached for our mother’s hand, and drew in a breath. He then explained that there are a lot of people less fortunate than us. As simply as possible, he told us that the Bank was going to take away another family’s house if they didn’t pay money.

           “How much money, daddy?”

           “A lot.”

           He explained that rather than go on a trip this Christmas, we were giving the money we would’ve spent on vacation to the Bank so the family, who had little girls just like me, could keep their house.

           He never told us who the family was.

           I never learned how much money he gave them…but, as an adult with a job and children of my own, I can take an educated guess.

           Dad spent decades working for the same company, and he hated it. He told me he’d dreamt of being a jet fighter pilot, but his eyesight was so horrendous that it was impossible. So he settled for a job he didn’t enjoy, and it drained him. Hours upon hours, he labored in a DuPont plant mixing chemicals to create car paint. He couldn’t stand the wrath of his superiors on the corporate end, and he never could get close to his coworkers. He was a natural introvert, yes, but he didn’t associate himself with people who degraded his integrity. The men at his job smoked pot during lunch breaks, blew all their Friday paychecks on hard liquor, and frequently invited him into a prostitute trailer parked behind the factory. He didn’t agree with that lifestyle and was persecuted for it mercilessly. Often, the only companionship he found at work was from the radio, which he listened to while eating lunch in the car.  

           There are things I distinctly inherited from Dad. His passion for politics is a perfect example. I remember nights spent in front of the TV, Tom Brokaw broadcasting the news, my dad and I sharing pita bread and hummus or crackers with canned sardines or smoked oysters. The salty, oily taste of fish in a tin acts as a trigger. During those quiet times spent together, he liked to pass on thoughts and wisdom.

           The only person he ever hated was Bill Clinton. He despised that man, and whenever the president appeared on our screen, Dad would shut the television off in a huff. When I asked him why President Clinton bothered him so much, he just shook his head and uttered, “I can’t respect a man who cheats on his wife. How do you trust someone who lies to the very person they promised to always be faithful to?”

           I never questioned the morality of my dad. He was a righteous man who read the Bible, attended church, and believed that beer is a sign that God loves us and wants us to be happy.  

           He had that exact phrase – it’s a Ben Franklin quote – on a T-shirt. His best friend, Robert, had a shirt to match it. They were closer than brothers, and I remember Uncle Bob was always at our house bearing gifts and pearls of wisdom for us girls. He and Dad joked that the hope of America rested on my shoulders, and that it was my duty to keep my reputation as spotless as possible so I could be president one day. I never forgot their faith in me, long after Uncle Bob waded into the deep end of atheism and then went under, completely submerged and drowning in the bitterness of his refusal to acknowledge a god. We never saw him again, and even though Dad said nothing, I know losing his best friend like that was worse than if he had died.

           Dad’s father died when he was fourteen, and from that moment on he took on the roll of Superman for his mother and brother during their grieving. He loved his father more than words can express, and I knew it; spread throughout my childhood were bits and pieces of Papa, appearing in the forms of a watch Dad always wore, a Free Masons ring, a case full of World War II medals, and a brown leather recliner that he and I always sat in. Dad always loved World War II movies. I never said it aloud, but I always figured those movies helped him feel connected to his father.

           In high school, I was bullied and sexually harassed by a gang of undersexed pubescent boys. Every day I would make up outlandish excuses to stay home, or halfway through the day fake sick and get sent home early. Finally, Dad caught on to what was happening, so he went directly to the principal so the harassment would stop. To our dismay, my sexist principal simply had a chat with each of the boys that consisted of approximately two sentences: “She’s obviously mentally unstable. Just leave her alone and the school won’t have to deal with her problems anymore.” Needless to say, this didn’t help the situation; if anything, it was reassurance to the boys that our principal was on their side, and they could continue torturing me without fear of punishment. That’s when Dad decided to take things into his own hands: he signed me up for taekwondo and taught me everything I needed to know about dealing with assholes. By the time I’d reached a black belt and gotten in two fights at school (both in self-defense, of course), I may not have been well-liked, but at least I was left alone. Dad taught me that I didn’t have to be afraid because all the strength, courage, and confidence I’d ever need was already within me.      

           When I was twelve, I decided that baseball was my favorite sport and I promptly became obsessed with it. In fact, rarely a day went by that I wasn’t glued to the TV, engulfed in a Dodger’s game. I came to know every player, every team, every score, stat, and skill in Major League Baseball. And before I knew it, Dad was joining me. He never, to my recollection, was a baseball fan. But something changed, and all of a sudden he was the one keeping track of scores and standings and waiting for me to join him in watching the game. On my birthday every year, we drove all the way to Los Angeles to watch a Dodger’s game. Just me and him. It was wonderful. On the way home from one of those birthday games, I was falling asleep in the shotgun seat when I heard him whisper, “Thanks, Mack-ster, for reminding me of how much I love baseball.”

           I later learned that baseball was his dad’s favorite sport, and the two of them bonded over listening to Dodgers games on the radio when he was a child. After his father died, his love of baseball died, too.  I promised myself that I wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me when my dad died. If  he ever died.

To me, Dad was more invincible than Superman. He never showed weakness, but he had a quiet empathy that bred an old-world, gentlemanly air about him. He seemed timeless, and even as the years passed he was consistent in character and looks. That’s why our last Daddy-Daughter Night left me numb and disbelieving, as if reality could not be as frigid as the touch of his words.

It was a Tuesday night. He called me up and suggested we go out to Luigi’s, our favorite Italian restaurant. I met him at our usual booth, situated under a wooden overhang covered in fake grapes hanging from vines. It smelled like tomato sauce, basil and garlic. A basket full of breadsticks sat in front of him on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, a dish of olive oil and parmesan cheese next to it. We carried on our usual conversation through the appetizer – calamari – and the salad course – with bleu cheese dressing, like always – when the air thickened with words not yet uttered, suppressed and even withheld. I could sense this cloud suffocating and separating us. There was something he wasn’t telling me, I knew, but I couldn’t reach him through the smog of sensitive silence. Finally, when the waiter delivered our entrees (eggplant parmesan for me, veal parmesan for him), he spoke.

“I’m dying.”

His words made the cloud evaporate so quickly that it created a vacuum, a black hole sucking out every emotion, every word, every thought, every sense until I was left with only shock. The breath caught in my throat, and I could feel my chest tighten with the realization that Superman had a kryptonite: Cancer.

I broke down sobbing within a matter of seconds, the tears flooding my eyes and pouring down my face as if a dam burst, throwing away all lessons he’d given me on “mental toughness”. And, to my absolute horror, he started crying, too.

It was the first – and the last – time I ever saw my father cry.

He died that spring.

And the man who shaped me into the person I am, the legacy he left behind, the impact he made on other lives – they are still a part of me, a part of the world, even though he’s no longer physically here. I feel his presence in objects, in sounds, in scents that trigger memories and bring him back to me intangibly. He did everything he could to leave this world better than he found it. He was the greatest man I ever knew.

The last notes of the song echoed in the basement, spreading a warm, bittersweet wave of nostalgia through my body reverberating in my soul as I hung on to the last line of lyrics:

And sometimes I despair the world will never see another man like him…