Dear ____ . . . . I have a story to tell you.
I’ll try and tell it here. This is my first attempt, so it may be confused in places.

This morning, as I was carrying my stuff from my motel room to the car, I had a clear vision, and I saw a little boy with a folded piece of paper in his hand. I knew who he was. It was my son, but he was so little, maybe 2 or 3. He showed me the piece of paper. It had scribbles on it, but he could read the scribbles. He wanted to give it to someone, and he showed me a picture of who he wanted to give it to. The picture was of me, 50 years ago. I asked him if this was his daddy and he said “yes”.

I knew right away what the “letter” said. He had written it to tell his daddy that he loved him. By this time, I was practically sobbing. [and still do every time I read it–author]

So I told him that

I

was his daddy, but of course he didn’t believe me: here I was, this nice old man who was crying, and this man was so much older than his daddy.

I understood why he was confused. I told him he didn’t need to write, that he could just “love” it to his daddy. Still he didn’t understand.

I don’t remember exactly what I said then, something like I knew his daddy a long time ago. I asked him if he remembered stuff that happened a long time ago, and he said he did. And I said that a long time ago, some terrible things happened to his daddy, and his daddy was so sad about it that he had tried to forget them. And that this was why his daddy couldn’t love him, or love anyone, the terrible things that had happened were so bad.

He asked me what those terrible things were. Of course, I couldn’t say, so I said that a few days ago I had just gotten a letter that his daddy had written, and his daddy was finally telling for the first time about the terrible things that had happened to him. [available on request: just ask for “I testify“] I said that the things were so terrible, I couldn’t tell him.

But I could tell him a story.

There were once some men that came to the place where your daddy lived, little men. “Little like me?” I said no, not that little, but they were not much bigger than he was. And they were all really mean. “Probably because they were so little,” he said. “Yes, you do understand”, I said. They wore expensive black uniforms and shiny boots, and big hats.

“Why did they wear those things?”, he asked. “It was because they were so scared of people finding out they were really little.” “Couldn’t people see that?” “Yes, but the little men were so mean that everybody was scared to tell them that they were little.” And the little men had big sticks and whips, and even guns. If you said anything like that to them, they would hit you with a stick, so nobody did.”
………
“Now, where was I?”
“You said these little men came and they were real mean.”
“Right.———”
“Well, your daddy was really brave, and he wasn’t afraid of them at all. Now, he wouldn’t say anything to them, but he couldn’t stop smiling. They asked him why, and he wouldn’t tell them. Then he started laughing. He was laughing at them because they were so little, but of course, he couldn’t say that, because they would hit him with their sticks, and maybe even shoot him with a gun.”

“So what did they do to him?”
“That’s the part he wouldn’t say up until now. And I can’t tell you, not until you’re older; it would just make you too sad.”

“So that’s why my daddy is so sad. I knew he was sad.”
“Yes. Do you want me to tell you more?”
“No. I feel bad that I tried to make him love me. I did things.”
“Of course you did—–anybody would.”

“Can you tell my daddy that I understand?”
“Of course I can, and I’ll do that today. He’ll be happy to hear that.
Can I give you a hug?”
“Sure. And here’s a kiss for my daddy. Just tell him I understand, and tell him that
I hope he won’t be sad.”

Sept. 11,2022 Public Domain v6