A long letter to Fred in which my father ruminates on his writing, his muses, his psyche, his hiding from feeling. I am basically a survivor with suicidal tendencies, he writes, that is, no one will be able to destroy me, except me myself.
As I reread this, I am reminded again that I am an imperfect copy of an imperfect father.
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.