I was going through this box I've had since my father died it's full of the things he saved about me my third grade report card calling me social but not much of a rule follower or my dorm room clean-out card all those things but what tore me up were all these short stories I wrote when I was 17 or 18 and had these dreams of being the next Joyce I barely even remember some of them but what I do remember is that dad always wanted to write a story together father and son and kept giving me ideas to start my half of it and I never did I never wrote a ****** word I might have sent him an idea and then never followed up and now he's gone and what I wouldn't give to just write a few **** words for him to show him I took it seriously and maybe give him just that one more chance to open up and tell me what kinds of things rested in the broadness of his mind.