My Father's Waffles

My Father.

As I speak the words I still mourn his death. Is it not man's very nature to mourn what it can no longer have in this life? One does not miss what they have. How can anyone? To have is to not need. And it is in need that we find the true essence of mankind.

My Father.

He had some crazy theories, this is true. However, when he stepped into the kitchen, he could create some delightfully tasty waffles. How is it that a man could ever make such a delicious meal? A taste of Heaven, no doubt. Should Heaven exist, and after eating my father's waffles, you would have surely affirmed that it did within your own heart.

And now he is gone. And with him, his waffles. For a man who makes waffles cannot make waffles from beyond this life. It is the sad providence of the departed to go waffle-less through eternity, as those they leave behind go without them through life.

I find myself greatly desiring waffles. Inside of me there is an urge, a craving, to encapsulate the delicacy and savor the emptiness of every sprocket, the firmness of every cog. Why then must the urge, the hunger, go unfulfilled? Is it simpley that my destiny has another food choice in mind? Or could it be that I have had my fair share of waffles already?

Perhaps then it is that life, that destiny, rations out its portions of happiness, of splendor. Once that share has been devoured, then is there more? Or are we left wanting. Wanting what we know we can no longer have.

I came to this diner expecting to fulfill my hunger. Yet the taste, the consequence for my desire of the non-existent, is bitter. Bitter as ink from a crazed octopus.

It seems the best fulfillment I can find today, the most gratification, is here on this very blog. I can express my feelings, my inside thingies, to the masses, as though that somehow makes up for my lack of wonder-waffles.