Amberglore - by Time Spiral

I do not typically offer narrative, or commentary on my art, but for the purposes of this article I will. Please read the poem below, titled Amberglore. Below the poem you may choose to read or ignore my commentary. That section will be clearly labeled.

Amberglore

It shouldn't be this hard to keep you alive.
Some memories like diamond, some a wisp of smoke.
Maybe it's my pride, to think that I could keep you alive.
But it chokes me up, and tears me down, to find it such a challenge.

Sometimes days go by, without a conscious thought.
The holes fill and flood with life, like water.

I swore that not a minute would pass, where ...
Well, minutes turned to amber.
I'd sculpt memory to monument, so ...
But, I forget almost every year.
"He's dead. That's why," a demon whispers in my ear.

Weeks will pass me by, without a minute spent.
Selfishly unaware, of those beyond.

Years become a flicker! "No time," I tell myself.
It cannot be my fault, can it?
"He's dead. That's why."

I shake my head.
This demon needs to die!

I know he's gone. He died so many years ago.
But it's I, who won't, keep him on my mind.
He's gone. I know. That was a lifetime ago.
But it's I, who doesn't, keep him on my mind.

Demons, be gone. He taught me all about you.
Be light, be strong, he showed me how to fight you.
Yet my memories still fade, away, a little more each day.
Until, a day, like today ...
Until a moment, just like this one ...
Where you are still alive, and your glory still survives.

You are still alive.

By, Time Spiral
Dedicated to: Donald Bruce Fugit

It's useful for you to identify with your experiences, and claim them as your own. But it is art, the willingness to share, and the uniquely human experience to help those around you that will always serve as a vigilant reminder that it is those very experiences that bind us together.

My Father passed away when I was just becoming a young man, learning what it was to live, to be a person, to be a human.

I am older now. I am a Father now. I live a blessed life, have a loving family, yet there exists a part of me that is and may always be shrouded in darkness. I do not have pity for myself, nor do I dwell on the loss, but I cannot forgive myself for something that happens far to often; nothing.

How many times do I get reminded of his birthday only because I forgot it? How often is his death brought into my mind only by the realization that I cannot remember the date it happened? It pains me that someone so important to me, someone who helped shape the very man I am today, barely gets any time in my mind on a daily basis. I try, hard! yet still forget ...

This is just unacceptable!

I needed to do something. I needed to work on this. To feel this. I needed to move through the experience again and try and figure out why he is not in my thoughts more. Have I pushed him away? Am I really just that thoughtless?!

The above poem is that struggle. It is not my struggle. It is a human struggle. And that struggle is not without a moment of levity, and relief, for the memories do come back, on a day like this one. Glorious moments are spent between him and I still, they are golden, like amber, and maybe creating this art has helped create a pathway for that to happen more frequently.

I love you, Dad.

Be peaceful on your way,

Time_Spiraling