My father, George St. George, passed away on February 7th, 2017. Our relationship was sometimes complicated, but I loved him very much. It is very hard to believe that I would have become a writer without him; it is harder still to accept that he won’t be here to see me hopefully publish my first novel or meet my children if I ever decide to have them. It’s hard to imagine spending a Christmas where I don’t shake my head, laughing, at whatever thing he got me that was only tangentially related to what I actually asked for. It’s impossible to reconcile what my head knows, what my eyes saw, and what my heart feels: that he’s gone but can’t be gone, because he’s Papa and was always here.
I don’t expect to discuss this in any more public detail for some time, and am not particularly looking for any type of condolences such as “he’s gone to a better place” or “he’ll always be with you.” It just felt wrong to try and return to business as normal around here without saying a word, particularly because my father commented on my reviews so often to tell me how he proud he was, and to stop using so much profanity.
I love you, Papa. Today, at least, there will be no F-bombs.