Posted by: Dylan Stafford | May 19, 2026

Ten-Year Lisa Love Letter

My younger sister, my only sister, Lisa died ten years ago today, on May 19, 2016.

She would be 54 today if she had made it.

This letter is to her, for her, from me, her brother.

—

Dear sister Lisa,

How’s heaven treating you? Can you believe you’ve been there ten years? You probably already know everything I will write, but I like talking to you sister, especially today.

Questions:

Are there puppies in heaven? I imagine infinity with puppies everywhere and you surrounded by little yelping, laughing, loving spirits, peaceful and content and wiggling.

And how about time, is there time in heaven? Some people say God is bigger than time, so maybe no clocks in heaven. Just curious.

Down here, we still have time. I’m 57 now–Bwahhh! 57 makes me laugh when I say it out loud. 57 can’t possibly apply to me…but it does.

The last ten years have been without you Lisa. Even with ten years passed, everybody still misses you: Mom, Dad, Jon, Marisa, Jackson and Christian, our friends, me. We all miss you.

Updates:

Mom and Dad are well. They are in their early 80s now, and strong, lucid, and mobile. We are blessed by them. Brother Jon is his creative self, making songs and being the best son and brother and uncle. Marisa and I are well, with Jackson and Christian growing strong. Marisa’s huge family is full of new great-grandbabies; it’s beautiful.

Our boys: Jackson finished his freshman year of college. He went away to Baltimore, to Loyola University Maryland. His major is Chemistry. He made straight A’s, including Organic Chemistry I & II, with labs. I never got close to all A’s! He’s 6’3″ and doing great. Christian is completing 8th grade in a couple of weeks. He loves basketball and practices and plays on several teams. I wish I’d had more respect for sports growing up, because I see the many life lessons that Christian is learning that will serve him well in life.

Marisa has hit her stride as a management consultant. She helps executive teams untangle and move their organizations forward effectively. She loves her work and her business is strong.

UCLA Anderson is still my home, working with MBA students who are building companies, careers, and lives of significance. Podcasting has hit a new level. We made a mentor program. We are connecting alumni and current students and building community. As always, it is deeply rewarding work. Over the upcoming decade, I want to teach and speak and write: teaching about leadership, and speaking and writing on family and faith and children. I finished my third book last year, Daddy Muscles Too. You’d like it Lisa, it has more humor.

Time marches and I still miss you Lisa.

I miss you on your birthday. I miss you at Christmas. When we go to church in Ft. Worth with Mom and Dad, certain hymns bring you back to me. I miss you in Colorado. I miss you at the ranch. I miss hearing your “pet-whisperer” high-pitched squealy-voice. I miss hearing you say, “Hi Nunna!” when I walk into Mom and Dad’s home and seeing you sparkle and hugging you. I miss your long, delicate fingers and your beautiful penmanship; nothing beats a Lisa Note. I miss your amazing sense of style with your clothes. I miss your passion for music, and Lady Gaga and Tom Petty are Lisa-keys that always evoke you. I miss driving and talking with you, about everything. I miss our phone calls.

And I miss you for Mom’s sake. Mom lost her only daughter, but she also lost one of her best friends. When it’s time to shop, I think how you and Mom would have tackled whatever shopping task was pending with vim and power. Jon and I do our best, but we pale compared to you when the topic is shopping.

What else?

Your loss doesn’t stab me like it did the first years. Your loss is a temperature change now, not a stinging jab. A moment is a little cooler without you, but the crushing shock of your death has passed.

Mom talks about frequency, intensity, and duration–that we can measure our healing from trauma by seeing how frequently, how intensely, and for how long it hits us. All three are lower for me, and I don’t get sideswiped by grief now.

I still see you in the clouds, especially on road trips. You don’t visit me in my dreams like you did the first couple of years after you left. You come to me at church; Christian will look up at me and notice me quietly weeping–that’s a visit from you.

You are with me in sobriety meetings, especially the 7:00 a.m. Ft. Worth Harbor Group. You and I attended that meeting in person back in 2001. There are friends there who remember us, who knew you, who attended your Celebration of Life. That meeting went online in March of 2020 and I zoomed every day for three years straight, and I still go several times a week now, at 5:00 a.m. California time. Those relationships are magical, a loving bridge back to before you left earth.

Your life, your legacy, exists for me each day in my sobriety. I wouldn’t be sober without you Lisa, and without being sober, I’d have none of the gifts of this life. You held my hand and showed me how to trudge the road of happy destiny, 25 years ago. On February 28, 2001, that night I started sobriety, thanks to you, and with you. You were so transformed on your own journey, and I wanted what you had: peace, generosity, patience, love. You showed me a new path, how to take life one-day-at-a-time, and practice these twelve-step principles in all my affairs.

My whole life rests on a foundation of faith and sobriety: Family, Friends, Contribution, Love and Community, Relationships–they all stack on top of faith and sobriety. My life is blessed, and I wouldn’t have these blessings without your guidance Lisa.

Thank you Lisa. Thank you for 44 perfect years of having a little sister, a little sister who steered her big brother to a blessed life.

Thank you for these last 10 years of the memory of you and your legacy of sobriety girding my life.

You’re in my heart today Lisa. Thank you for the gifts and the guidance. I honor your memory, one-day-at-a-time, and I pay it forward walking this earth as a sober person, slowly learning about humility and service, like you showed me.

I love you Lisa,
Nunna

2 Comments

Posted in Acceptance, Honoring Sister Lisa, Slowbriety | Tags: , , , , , ,

Posted by: Dylan Stafford | January 2, 2026

Repeat the Sounding Joy

I would not leave you. In times of trouble.

Catholic girls start much too late.

Even rode my motorcycle, in the rain.

It’s Friday night. January 2, 2026. 7:21 PM. It-never-rains-in-southern-California, but its raining now.

My sons are 18 and 13, the adult teenager Jackson and our brand-new teenager Christian. Both are here, home tonight. We’ve finished dinner. Dishes washed. Dried. Put away.

And I’m inspired; I’m daddy-diary-driven. It’s been years. My cousin Carla gifted me her new book of poetry, The Coffee Cafe, and I read it cover-to-cover New Year’s Eve. Scenes of Americana from Bakersfield, California. Love and loss, tattoos and poetry, coffee and ideas. Carla’s poems are inspiring me to write again.

Jackson is home from his first semester of college. Christian is half-way through 8th grade. I’m 56. My wife is still 29, again. She’s happy to stay perpetually sunny at 29. Tee hee! We have our chronological age, and our mental age!

The leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing old. But his blood runs through me still and he’s my hero as always. Dad celebrated 60 years of marriage to Mom this year. 60. Wow. Respect. Dad always listens to me. When I’m in my brain-on-fire mode he’ll say, “That would be good in a book.” Or he’ll quote Bob Dylan, “I will know my song well before I sing it.” Always encouraging me towards art, creation. We enjoy the “Great Conversation” over decades.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year.

Music got me through my youth, to 27 and beyond. Music carried me, the lift to live. Bedroom-turntable getting ready for school. First record: Billy Joel, Glass Houses. Windows-down in my pickup truck with no AC, driving to high school with the 6 x 9 speakers bumping. Cassette tapes. Radio, and praying for a great next song. Driving to college, five hours to A&M with the windows down in the Texas heat. Sound waves lift. Songs re-member. Songs repeat.

They say that he got crazy once, and tried to touch the sun.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

Childhood Candlelight Christmas Eves. Memories flood back. Holding the candle, watching for drips. Advent calendars: 25 day countdowns with little chocolates, one-per-day. The magic crescendo to Christmas morning.

Can’t sleep. Wake early, before the parents. Gather my collaborators, my younger siblings Lisa and Jon. Three little mice. Pajama-clad kids. My sister with long strands of hair in the sides of her mouth, eyes twinkling, a little elf. When will they wake up? When can we open presents? After presents, cinnamon rolls and orange juice and eggs and bacon. Mom cooks a special breakfast. My brother runs through the house, his hands flying his new spaceship that makes different noises when he points it up, or down.

Then a Christmas morning drive. South. To our grandparents “down in Dallas” in the 70s. Walking in the backdoor at grandma and grandpa’s home, “Harold Dear” and “Bobby Dear.” Greeted by apple juice and goldfish crackers, and hugs. A tiny home that smelled like plaster. My grandfather with his leather vest that smelled like pipe smoke. A home full of nooks and magic and leftover clues of my dad’s childhood. Pictures. Trophies. Artifacts. Dad, a skinny child once? It couldn’t be. Could it? A kid, like me?

Christmas now, 2025.

We flew across America, Los Angeles to North Carolina, a week to make new memories with family. All four of our own parents now in their 80s. Still strong in some ways. Slowing down in other ways. Laughs. Forgets. Repeats. Lots of Repeats. What? Could you say that again? Does anyone still hear well?

Small moments. How many more? Don’t count. Just. Be. Here. Now.

My mother-in-law doesn’t say much. Most of her words are gone. She answers questions with Yes, or No, or not at all. But her eyes still sparkle. She’s in there. Her soul shines out even as her body retreats.

My father-in-law cares for his bride of 66 years. He’s a mountain of a man. Teacher. Entrepreneur. Deal-maker. Father of five. Double-digit grandfather. Now a great-grandfather, with more on the way. My wife gets her strength from both her parents.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

Nobody told me there’d be days like these. Indeed.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

Mom. I am blessed by your love, always. Thank you for your love of words. Thank you for your Joy. Thank you for creating our family, past, present and future. You are the center of all our orbits, the “egg in the meatloaf” that holds us all together. Thank you for always encouraging me, and Lisa and Jon.

Dad. The leader of the band. Your gentle means. Your strong hands. Ever the role model. Thank you Dad for showing me how to be a husband and a father. And how to backpack and fix things and read and stay organized and chill.

Lisa. Sister Christian. Oh. The time has come. Missing you Lisa. Always. Thank you for teaching me how to live sober. Touch wood, it’ll be 25 years this coming February.

Jon. Brother Jon. That’s what friends are for. Thanks for all you do for Mom and Dad. Thank you for your Joy and your creativity. Your art with your music always inspires me.

Teach. Your children. Well.

Well, I’m a father now. Me!? My own children. Two. Sons.

The past. Is just a good bye.

Don’t you ever ask them why.

Just look. At them. (*Sigh*) And know they love you.

Steak. Tonight Jackson cooked steak. Really well. Well not Well. Medium rare actually. He sears way better than me, and I’m the one who was raised in Texas. His Christmas gift to the family was a 10″ stainless steel fry pan. Tonight: Room temperature meat. Salt and pepper on both sides. Heat the pan. Hot. Add olive oil, instantly sliding around and really hot now. The sizzling contact and then three minutes on a side. Exhaust fan working. The house smells great. Baked potatoes. One for everyone. Sour cream. Cheddar cheese. Pepper and salt. Butter. More butter, just in case. Touching me. Touching you. Sweet Caroline. I’m feeling fine. Bah Dah Dah. This is my life. Nobody told me it could be this good.

Christian cheered on Jackson from his gaming PC in the next room. NBA 2K26. His avatar, the 6’8″ digital Christian Stafford is crushing it. Averaging 60 points a game. With a career high of 111 points. Plus, Christian keeps giving his avatar new tattoos. Tonight, his avatar is rocking a giant rose on his back, and a huge “6 7” on his chest. Six-Seven, how many times did I hear that this winter? Christian is cooking on the digital court while his big brother rocks in the kitchen.

Sizzling steak dinner here in never-raining, yet wet wet wet, southern California tonight. Dark too early. Cozy. Both boys back under one roof after Jackson’s first semester of college, so far away in Baltimore(!?!?) Could he pick a school farther away? Okay. I get it. If I had his parents, I might stretch my wings too.

Family. After-Christmas homily. Jesus had to flee. Joseph had a dream. Get out of Dodge! King Herod is still looking for you. Flee. From a manger to a refugee in Egypt. Humble. Scared. A family together in stress. Listening for God’s direction. How blessed am I to raise children in 2026, in a country with running water, with streets, with electricity? Blessed.

Nobody told me there’d be days like these

Indeed. Strange days. Peaceful days. Circumstances circumstancing. Life doing life. But everything falls into place, eventually. My momma told me.

My bride. Thank you Marisa. For this life together. You always re-listen when I repeat my joke.

“I gotta get some new charts,” say I.

“Why?” you reply.

“Cuz loving you is off the charts.” My punchline.

But it’s a serious joke. You smile, hearing it repeated. I smile with gratitude because I could have missed all of this. I got sober in February of 2001. I met you three months later. I’m still sober. We’re 22 years married. I’m getting the hang of being your husband. And life keeps getting better.

Catholic girls start much too late. Do they? Maybe that is a good thing? What was my hurry? I’m grateful for you, my exotic Catholic girl. You introduced me to a whole new world.

Grateful for our marriage. Grateful for children-becoming-men. Stand up straight. Pull your shoulders back. Look upon the world with peace, with strength, with humility, with curiosity.

No. No. No. It ain’t me babe. I don’t know how to be a dad. And neither do most dads. But we do our best anyway.

Thank you Marisa. I might be as crazy as they say. But you chose me. Anyway. Newly sober. Laid off six weeks after 9/11. When I proposed to you in the summer of 2002, without a job, you saw who I was, without all the perfect trappings. You saw the me I could become. You married me, flaws and weaknesses and goofiness and all. You gave me that New Jersey promise, “Divorce never…Murder maybe!” You have blessed me beyond my dreams love.

It was me you were looking for babe.

You get prettier each year. Nobody told me a wife could get prettier. Prettier on the inside. Prettier on the outside. Your faith. Your family. Those generations who made you. All of them shine through you. You bless all around you, family, friends, customers, neighbors.

She was… (You Are) an American girl.

Song. Sung. True.

Solitary man. Transformed to a married human. One plus one is three: father, son and holy holy holy Toledo. You plus me is we. Nobody told me. The joy repeats. The joy repeats.

It sounds. It repeats.

Music: the art form all other art forms aspire to be. Music lifts. Music moves. Someone saved my life tonight.

Marriage: nobody told me. It gets better. 22 years for Marisa and me. 60 years for Jack and Ginny, my parents. 66 years for Brad and Barbara, Marisa’s parents. 69 years for Alphonse and Helen (now deceased) Marisa’s grandparents who danced at our wedding in 2003. Married role models all around. Nobody told me. They showed me.

Merry Merry Happy Happy 2026.

May you look and seek, and find. May peace, unearned and gifted by grace, find you and lift you and bless you with your hopes and dreams this coming year.

Peace. Peace. Peace.

Songs. Sung. True.

Repeat the Sounding Joy.

6 Comments

Posted in Dylan's Diaries | Tags: , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Dylan Stafford | July 4, 2025

Green Sky, Blue Grass #10

Dear Lisa,

Today is the 4th of July.

This is our tenth 4th of July without you, dear sister.

Time for my annual update letter to you. The sky is still green and the grass is still blue without you. The world is still upside down from your loss. And, life keeps life-ing.

What can I tell you about this year?

First Update: Your Nephews

Jackson (18)

Jackson finished high school. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from Loyola High School and didn’t break a sweat. He’s a gamer, up at night late, in his room with his headphones, screaming wildly and waking us up as he conquers the world with his friends. Imagine me in my Dungeons & Dragons days…but with more screaming.

He’s off to college in about six weeks. He chose Loyola University Maryland, in Baltimore. Baltimore!?! Could he choose something farther away? Is this a subtle hint that he needs some space, like 2,655 miles of elbow room?

Oh! And he had his first girlfriend this year! The relationship ended as fast as it began, but it was magnificent. She had dinner with us at least seven or eight times during their relationship. They went to prom. His high school yearbook has a picture of them walking into prom together.

I know I’m a hopeless romantic, but I didn’t know how much. After I met the young girl, I was instantly thinking They should get married, and start a family.

When I put this thought on loudspeaker, Marisa looked at me like I had two heads.

Theirs was a four-month relationship, February to May. Jackson was heart-broken when it ended. But our friend Jen reminded us, the heart is a muscle, not a bone. Bones break. Muscles stretch.

Jackson’s friends rallied around him. He has great friends.

Oh. And also, Jackson grew a beard (way better than my beard!). He sported a full red beard his whole senior year of high school. He’s 6’3″ and a shade under 200 pounds. With the beard, his jawline is even stronger. He makes a big presentation.

Back to Baltimore. Baltimore?! Loyola University Maryland, a Jesuit school with 4,000 undergraduates. Greyhound Nation. Definitely not Texas A&M. No Saturday football. He will have family within a couple of hours, older married cousins and his Uncle Chris and Aunt Lisa, all on Marisa’s side.

I miss him everyday already, even when he wakes me up at night with the screaming.

And, it is time for him to fly.

He is pursuing Mechanical Engineering. His study habits are solid. He’ll do well.

Oh. Last thing. Cigars.

At Loyola High School, the oldest school in Los Angeles county, they have a graduation tradition that the new seniors smoke a celebratory cigar. All these blue-robed new graduates were clipping and lighting and puffing away in the courtyard. Jackson was SO into it. Pure fun.

Grandma Ginny was here with us from Fort Worth for graduation, participating fully and taking it all in. You’d have loved the smile on Mom’s face. Actually, here is a picture of our fully fulfilled mom with her grandson.

Jackson Stafford (18) and Grandma Ginny Stafford at the 2025 Loyola High School graduation, Los Angeles, California.

Next Nephew Update:

Christian (13)

The Blond Bomber. C-Nation. Double-Dub. These are some of my nicknames for Christian.

Younger brother Christian also had a banner year. He turned 13 this March. We now have a brand-new teenager (13) and a brand-new-adult teenager (18).

Christian enjoyed seventh grade at SM Prep. We have a carpool and my day to drive was Wednesday morning, to get the gang over to Santa Monica from Culver City. I looked forward to those Wednesday drives all year long. Four seventh-grade boys yakking it up was a highlight of my week.

Christian’s sport is basketball. He plays on the school team and also developmental leagues. We’re always taking him somewhere for a practice, or a clinic, or a game. Because of my UCLA role introducing me to Coach John Wooden, I see the life-lessons the Wizard of Westwood wrote about unfolding in Christian’s development as a player and a person.

Be quick, but don’t hurry.

It takes ten hands to score a basket.

It’s amazing what can be achieved when no one is worried about getting credit.

Never mistake activity for accomplishment.

Make today your masterpiece.

John Wooden quotes are even more valuable to me now, as a father, seeing the wisdom of these words helping form and shape Christian.

At the final assembly of seventh grade, Christian was in front of the school as the reader for that morning’s scripture. He ran for 8th grade student council and earned a seat as the Religion and Service officer. He was nervous about running for student government.

“All the student council leaders are girls,” he told Marisa.

“That was last year Christian. If you run, then next year there could be some boys in the government too,” she said to him encouragingly.

Your nephews are doing great Lisa.

Third Update: Writing Daddy Muscles Too

Well Lisa, you former English major, I finished my third book. It’s titled Daddy Muscles Too.

I think you’d approve.

Daddy diaries over a seven-year span, from Jackson’s first birthday (2008) to Christian’s third birthday (2015). Diaper blow-outs. Sick days. Mountaintop moments. Tears and laughter.

My voice is stronger. You’d be proud of me Lisa. I have more to say about marriage and fatherhood now.

Re-reading the daddy diaries written over a decade ago, culling and editing, remembering the energy of having little children, it was all revelatory. And funny, hearing how things I was worried about never came to pass, or worrying about some things the same way all these years later. My love for Marisa deepened. I’m blessed to have a wife and partner. I see that blessing with new eyes every year. I don’t deserve her.

Writing this book has shown me my commitment to the possibility of A) people having a partner for life, and B) when appropriate, raising a family together.

I found my lane!

Fourth Update: Still Sober!

Remember February 28, 2001, Lisa, when you helped me choose sobriety? Well I celebrated 24 continuous years of sobriety, including nights and weekends and trips to Hawaii, this year.

That’s when I remember you most Lisa, when I sit in a twelve-step recovery meeting and we talk about how we found a new spiritual path and a way to live with peace and purpose and service for others.

These last five years since COVID, I have attended a 5:00 a.m. Zoom meeting hosted by 12-step friends from Fort Worth, Texas. The meeting is 7:00 a.m. in Texas, but two hours earlier out here in California.

There are people on that 5:00 a.m. Zoom who remember both you and me from getting sober in 2000 and 2001 respectively.

I mention you often when I get called on to share.

You were my eskimo, as we say. You were the one who led me in from the cold. You held my hand and guided me and your patience with me gave me access to this entire blessing of a life I live today.

IF No sobriety, THEN No Marisa, No Jackson, No Christian, No books, No UCLA, etc.

My life would not have turned out without you and your love dear sister, if you had not shown me how to adopt a new path to be a sober, grateful and calm member of society.

Last Updates: Marisa, Jon, Dad and Mom

Marisa

Your sister-in-law is doing very well. Marisa’s parents are in their upper eighties now. Her mom is slowed physically and has significant cognitive decline. Her dad continues to be the hero, ever-loving his bride and doing all he can. There is a lot of support needed and the family is figuring out how to take care of them. Marisa and Jackson were in North Carolina with her parents last week.

Thanks again Lisa. Because of your help with me, Marisa gets to have a good husband. I’m grateful.

Brother Jon

Our brother is an incredible, optimistic artist. His apartment in Fort Worth is Abbey Road West. He records his own music. He has a customized space, an artist’s dream, especially a musician. He and mom got our childhood piano moved from their old place to his apartment this year. I love that connection.

Jon and I text each other about you, whenever one of us hears a song that reminds us of you.

Songs connect me to you often.

One of my favorite essays in Daddy Muscles Too is “Five Magical Moments” from that day when you and I attended Priscilla and Scott’s wedding, remember?

We were sitting next to each other, you and I, when Priscilla paused in the wedding ceremony, and that hush fell over the room, and then she oh-so-gently sang Adele’s cover of Bob Dylan’s “To Make You Feel My Love.”

You popped a contact lens crying at Priscilla’s moment. I was blubbering too, sitting between you and Joy Jennings, everyone passing me tissues.

The winds of change are blowing wild and free and you ain’t seen nothing yet. Those words still remind me of you sister.

“Five Magical Moments” is one of my favorite essays because of the courage of Priscilla and Scott to create a new family together, and join their children into a new loving bond, that was so moving to me, and to get to witness that day with you and be back with our Denison friends, that is such a blessed time capsule Lisa. And it would not have happened without you.

Dad

Dad’s getting over his medical challenges from last year. He’s going great guns, and has about six-months of follow-up remaining. When the last medicines are complete, he should get a bounce-back in his overall energy.

He splits time between Fort Worth with mom, and SpunkyFlats and the country with his dogs and his cattle. He’s the happiest guy I know.

With my Aggie Buddies from the Corps, we all descended on the ranch last fall for Veterans Day weekend. We had a bonfire and BBQ and a great Aggie reunion. Dad was buttons-bursting proud hosting the Ags at the ranch.

“Lisa left her little prints all over our lives.”

“This too shall be part of our remembered joy.”

Those are two quotes dad shares in relationship to his love and missing of you.

Mom and Dad are both 82. 82!?!

They are mobile, lucid, silly, philosophical and doing great. We all miss you Lisa. We have marathon conference calls now on the weekends, all of us connected by our cell phones. Silly. Sassy. Profound. Pedestrian. All of it. You come up often. We all miss you.

Mom

I miss you most for Mom’s sake.

It’s coming up on a decade for Mom of losing her daughter and losing her best friend. She lost both when she lost you Lisa. You two had that special extra bond, that sisterhood that you shared: talking, confiding, shopping, going to church, eating out, shopping, taking adventures around Texas, shopping. You two had that sacred sister-space where Dad, Jon and I were not allowed. I miss that most for Mom.

Landing the Plane

It’s time to start to end this year’s love letter to Lisa.

It’s the morning of the 4th of July. I’ve been at this a few hours.

This is our tenth 4th of July since you left us in May of 2016, our tenth 4th of July without you Lisa.

Your body has been gone almost a decade.

I miss hugging you. I miss your voice. I miss the sparkle in your eye. I miss your nicknaming everything and your magical connection with animals. I miss your counsel. I miss your sisterhood with mom. I miss you and Jon talking about music. I miss you and dad geeking out on technology. I miss looking up at the stars at the ranch with you on a long cold Thanksgiving weekend.

We all miss you.

You were an angel-sister, an angel-daughter, an angel-friend, here on earth, in your body. Now, you’re an angel-angel, with us in spirit, but departed from this earth.

I sit at my writer’s desk on the back porch. I have a plaque on the wall that reads, “Angels are watching over me” Psalms 91:11 And, on that plaque, I have added a yellow post-it.

Written in red sharpie on that yellow post-it is written:

Look up.

Smile at heaven.

The last two years, completing Daddy Muscles Too, you were part of my inspiration Lisa. Half-asleep, first sips of coffee, early A.M. on the back porch, over and over, I would look up at the ceiling and smile and imagine you and grandmas and grandpas and all our ancestors looking down from heaven and whispering encouragement.

Thank you for the gift and the lift. The gift of sobriety and the lift of art.

Life is short. Art is long.

Thanks for being one of my muses sister Lisa.

We love you.

We miss you.

Your brother, Nunna

July 4, 2025, Culver City, California

4 Comments

Posted in Dylan's Diaries | Tags: , , , ,

Older Posts »

Categories