A Writer's Notebook, Day Seven-Hundred-And-Ninety

Tonight is a strange night for me.  It is the birthdays of both my father, and of Thomas Lux, the professor who largely directed my life towards poetry.  The date brings up a lot of memories, many positive, but the tinge of loss is always present, will touch all that is sweet with its hint of bitter.  There are aspects of it that feel strange to me, in an uncanny, almost eerie sense, as Tom was a year older than my father and died almost exactly a year after him.  I have a great deal more that I can get into about my feelings on this, but in truth, I am not certain that I am in the place to say much more, or write a great deal on the subject.  I just feel the loss of each one tonight, and feel the combination of that.  In part, I am also remembering a larger set of circumstances, ones that led me to lose touch with Tom for many years.  Indeed, I had gone to an event where I believed he would be present just a month before his death, but he was already ill.  In large part, I had hoped to reconnect with him, especially as I was in quite a lot of hurt over my dad, as I still am.  Tonight, so many of those feelings come up for me, mixed together, coming all at once at times.  I just need to stop babbling for now and take a break, unwind a bit, and try to get to bed early.

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