It’s fair to say that both your parents dying in one year, six months apart, is a lot to take in.

It’s awful damn hard to take.

And I’ve found that since Dad died on August 21, my mind has gone to an unexpected place, likely due to a kind of emotional shock—I feel blunted. Like the grief is always there, just around the corner, lurking like some kind of monster produced by an ancient curse.

But this is a bad horror movie. The monster never pounces. It just runs to the next corner to loom, to suggest itself in a twisted shadow.

So, what do I do now?

The thing that keeps occurring to me is that I must do something to ensure I honor those who have gone before me. I’m a storyteller, it’s one of maybe two-three things I do well. And yes, I know every writer from time immemorial has truly believed some aspect of their life worthy of extended narrative. I’m no different, but my instincts say regardless of my lack of objectivity on this subject, I may just be right.

I guess, then, there are stories to come. As I am able. As the spirits move me to tell their tales.