I figured that if I spent enough time staring at the blank white screen, the words would type themselves.
It seems to me they have.
I once wrote in the acknowledgements of my dissertation ( a 15,244-word effort on the motivations of highly involved fathers):
“To the person without whom any number of words on fathering seem meaningless—my father. You are the inspiration.”
But as I sit here now, without that person, it seems to me that any number of words on fatherhood seem even more meaningful.
The loss of a parent is an experience unique, and universal, to every single child. For me, it is the loss of my daddy, my hero, my best friend, my spiritual guide. But in that loss is also a gain: a light—his light—the energy of his zest for life, the tenderness in his forgiving eyes, the curiosity that led to the pursuit of his every passion, and above all, the soft spirit of his heart that never forgot to say,
‘We live in this world and live it well, but our soul serves a higher purpose—not for you and me, but for humanity.’
I take that light, and I take those words, and I take the next step forward. South Asian Parent was his child’s dream. It will now become a father’s masterpiece.
I was told by many to dedicate this issue to him. But I can’t. Because what is to come this month, and what was never published last month, and what will be written in the next ten months, or twenty years—they all belong to him. Every single word, every single issue, every single month.
