[ Ben nods, listening without comment, before he looks back down at the twisted, charred piece of metal he'd found on waking. ]
After my mother died, I was raised by my grandparents.
[ It has the cadence of a story's beginning; he glances up at Peter, lifting a hand in an agreeing, hold on motion before he goes on. ]
I know, this seems unrelated. But I was. You see, my father was also a Mountie, and the only way he really knew how to manage the grief was to throw himself into his work. He wasn't a man who spoke often — or at all, really — about his regrets. In fact, he died before he and I ever really had a conversation about what he felt about Mom, or even about me. My grandparents were like that, too. Very kind people, but not comfortable discussing their innermost thoughts and feelings.
Anyway, after my father died, I found a collection of his journals, where he wrote at length about his struggles, his regrets and guilt and sorrows. And I wonder if he ever hoped I'd find them, to read the things he was never able to say. It's interesting, because one of the regrets he mentions most often is that he couldn't tell me these things himself.
[ He smiles, very slightly, and shakes his head. ]
Which is a long way around to saying that if you ever wish you could tell someone the things you might only be able to write, or perhaps not even that, well... I'd listen. And if not, I understand.
this is so late, apologies! also Fraser talks about his dad for 895781274012 words...
After my mother died, I was raised by my grandparents.
[ It has the cadence of a story's beginning; he glances up at Peter, lifting a hand in an agreeing, hold on motion before he goes on. ]
I know, this seems unrelated. But I was. You see, my father was also a Mountie, and the only way he really knew how to manage the grief was to throw himself into his work. He wasn't a man who spoke often — or at all, really — about his regrets. In fact, he died before he and I ever really had a conversation about what he felt about Mom, or even about me. My grandparents were like that, too. Very kind people, but not comfortable discussing their innermost thoughts and feelings.
Anyway, after my father died, I found a collection of his journals, where he wrote at length about his struggles, his regrets and guilt and sorrows. And I wonder if he ever hoped I'd find them, to read the things he was never able to say. It's interesting, because one of the regrets he mentions most often is that he couldn't tell me these things himself.
[ He smiles, very slightly, and shakes his head. ]
Which is a long way around to saying that if you ever wish you could tell someone the things you might only be able to write, or perhaps not even that, well... I'd listen. And if not, I understand.