Through the cracks, I remember seeing my father play his guitar. Strumming, creating, and harmonizing. Making music to the best of his abilities. Some nights, I’ve even seen him pray. He always rested at the edge of the bed, with the night lamp on, as he closed his eyes and intimately murmured. He read books, slept like a bear, and at times caught me watching and invited me in.
Now, I’m the one being watched. What will my children see? What stories does my wife have? When I’m passionately in my zone, with that small opening on the door, what will my loved ones remember of me?