Day 1: What he said was

 ** I should mention that the title of these posts are the prompts from my instructor

Everytime I sit down to write, two things come to mind:  my father and my children.  I would love for some fantastic character to embody my writing, to lift me out of some of these recurring obsessions and immersions.  But, that character and her story doesn't exist yet.  Some days I feel like I must not have a story to tell because there are few stories immediately around me, save the ones that already dominate Huffington Post and Mommy blogs ("42 reasons my toddler is crying," "Are Women Doing It All," "Why You Should Get In the Picture, Mom").  Enough of that.  And some days, like today, when I'm smelling apples baking and the perfect album plays on my computer and I've finished some work, I believe I am just where I'm supposed to be. 

The other day, I thought, "What does it matter what I'm doing or not doing, since life is so unknowable?"  And, yet, there is a pang, at the center of my gut that, really, because life is short and so fragile, my job is to make it better for someone.  And am I doing that?  Perhaps, through the menial, daily toils of raising children.  Perhaps.

I found a letter from my father the other day.  He wrote it to me when I was 17, not knowing he would be dying in just 4 short years.  I was out with my friends, he told me.  It was my birthday, my golden birthday.  17 on the 17th.  What he said was that he was proud of the person I had become, that I was a friend to many, and that he knew I would "positively impact the people and institutions with which I came in contact."  What he meant was, you are a good person, Erin, and have something powerful to give out of your love of people and the world.  I know this.  And I thank whatever synchronistic power brought that letter out of hiding, almost exactly 17 years later to the day, to remind me that what he said was so very real to him, as a father, reflecting on his daughter and the effort he had put into raising her to be this person.  A person he believed could change things.  And, perhaps, just perhaps, these are the moments outside of more menial moments, that we find the most rewarding:  the joy of believing we have done good work and that good work will continue to be done.