Confirmation that I was to follow in my father’s footsteps jarred me in ways I never imagined. Since hearing the news, I awaken between 3 and 5 in the morning. Zero dark thirty is when my eyes fly open and I’m full-on aware. The words that normally tumble off my tongue now flow feverishly by pencil over a yellow-lined pad—as though I am possessed. And I write. Poetry. It is through my stepping up, speaking out, and sharing my own very personal thoughts and feelings that will emancipate the stigma attached to the growing numbers of those of us relegated to a diminishing memory. It gives purpose to feelings of less than and bolsters a roguish stubborn ruggedness in me for a worthwhile fight—to maintain dignity, honor and respect.
