Oh my papa you are only pentimenti now, the smudges 'cross the page, what remains... defines the messy, spontaneous, sentimental work of art that is this life. Upon passing glance, a viewer might never notice you were even here, or worse yet, might remember a story never knowing the man. But the marks you made, made me. They are indelible ink imprinted into my being; the mistakes, as much as the lessons. So much love, so little forgiveness, so unwilling to bend, to morph, to change, that instead you erased... Him... You... so many futures... but not the hurt. So engulfed in grief, as to mar everything beautiful that had come before you crumpled the paper, left a handprint that looks like charcoal but smells like gunpowder stained across the surface and burned yourself away. The parchment reeks of ash, turpentine & regrets but I will not start over. will not hide you away, will not wash you out, will not forget. I will smooth the wrinkles, press the memories of us lovingly between copies of Tolkien & Walt Whitman; add flourishes of laughter, bold colors that speak of bravery accept the alterations that you could not, and draw my own truth. I will live this piecemeal masterpiece a hodgepodge of heartache and exaltation leave a legacy for us both.