Not until I recently dug into my father’s letters did I realize how lonely his life had become. Perhaps I was too caught up in my own anger. Maybe I just had enough of his broken and empty promises. Or, quite possibly, it took my being alone to understand what being alone feels like, instilling within me a sense of empathy.
High atop a page in one of those wide-ruled notebooks rests two sentences and nothing more. They’re written in penmanship barely legible because of dad’s unceasing episode of the shakes.
“I’ve never been this lonely and all alone in my 44 years of living. Life is very difficult for me.”