Written for Daily Prompt: Life is too short to…?

Right now – and there’s a ‘right now’ every day since my father sailed away – I’m thinking what a gift he had. Those who read me know my father was a fisherman. A Scotsman. He, too, loved to write. He said he wanted to touch people with his poetry; have his words lie by the ears of those too troubled to sleep. I suppose my ego runs amok when I’m writing. It certainly does so when I write about my father, so much wanting to be like him. Today would have been his birthday. He was a hundred-point-man, more than my pen could ever reveal. When I think about him on an intimate level; who he was, what he thought, how he loved the pen when his thoughts were running dry and scratchy across the page, driven by the ink from a splitting nib, I recall he was a man constantly in pain. Oft days knocked from bow to stern, food ruined by the perpetual taste of salt in his mouth. But och! He would say, these bruises are but rich rewards for a man crippled by a thousand frost bites, a thousand falls down the deep brassy troughs of a reckless ocean, only to be sent on his way by the saxophone-seahorse, pushed home by violin winds under percussion skies. Days are too short to concern ourselves with life’s bruises

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http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/no-time-to-waste/