My dad died last year and I just don’t really know what to do with myself anymore. I know your dad died when you were my age, I think, so how do I be, like, normal again?
Really hope you write back,
I’m the wrong guy to ask about normalcy. I haven’t been normal since the third grade when I peed my pants onstage at a school assembly.
Even our school nurse remarked, “That child’s one rung short of a step ladder.”
She was right. But then, I don’t believe in “normal.” It’s a made-up word. And not that it matters, but I don’t believe in magic beanstalks, pop-stars, Florida Powerball, high cholesterol, or daylight saving time, either.
Years ago, while driving through South Alabama, I saw something. It was an overcast day and the world was colorless. My wife and I had just left a funeral. There was a sadness over our vehicle.
We rode through miles of farmland. My wife yelled, “LOOK!”
I glanced out the window. It was spectacular. I pulled into a cow
pasture. We stepped out. We ran through acres of cow pies and green grass.
And so help me, the colors were touching the ground. The tail was diving into the dirt like a spotlight. I’d never seen anything like it.
The cows watched us with big eyes while we behaved like six-year-olds. We took turns swatting the colors. I don’t know exactly why we did this, but I would’ve regretted not doing it.
Here’s where it gets somewhat magical.
The colors disappeared when I got too close. They reappeared when I took several steps back.
Closeup; gone. Far away; voila. The colors were there, but not always visible.
Eventually, the sun came out and the rainbow vanished completely.
We hiked back to the truck. I took in a breath of morning air and I felt…