My son David writes a blog of which I am extraordinarily proud at http://bustedclutch.com. Here is a sample that I hope encourages you to become a follower. Tom and I would love that.
For Thomas McCoy
He was here for my first play in high school, and my last performance in college. He was here the night I met a girl, and here the day I married her. He was here, here with me.
He was here when I found writing. He greeted my words like he would greet my kids, with love and pride and laughs. He nurtured them. Corrected and chided them when they were lazy or overly cute. He sat with them and cared for them, and showed me how to do the same. When fear or doubt made me run away to law, or to being busy, or just away, he gently reminded me of responsibility, and teasingly reassured me of my capacity to fulfill it. I write at all because when I wrote he was here, here with me.
He was here and pointed me to Conrad’s Preface, DeLillo’s Noise, and Kafka’s Hunger. His gifts, for every occasion, were words of his own. Full tender words of humor and depth. Words that showed how beautiful he was here. Here with us.
He was here that night I needed him most. Hours earlier and hundreds of miles away, I doubled over from the thought of losing him before I could say goodbye. After three years of being sick, his body fell out from under him. The pain, and the medicine, and the pain from the medicine closed in on his hospital bed. He fought through all that awful with jokes and tears, and he was here when I pushed through the hospital, and gave him the only words I had, “Tom, I’m here.”
Today, he is not anywhere, not anymore. He is not in days or places, just words. He is here.