Thanks For Being Here - Kelly's Emails to her Dad

Kelly Corrigan (0:00)

Hi, everyone, welcome to Thanks for Being Here, a short weekly pod to remind us of the many essential and beautiful ways we affect one another. Every Sunday, I'll read a submission from a listener, Kelly Corrigan Wonders, could be wedding vows or about mitzvah toast, a eulogy or retirement speech. We believe this is probably the loveliest way to tap into our better selves and remember our highest values. We encourage you to share this podcast each week with one person you love, maybe someone you miss and need to bring closer, someone you want to feel your appreciation or admiration or both. This is Thanks For Being Here.

This week's Thanks For Being Here is a little bit about my dad in honor of Father's Day. As you might know, if you're a long time listener, one of my favorite conversations I've ever had in my whole life, personal or professional, was with this guy who works with Bryan Stevenson. His name is Anthony Ray Hinton. He was on death row for 30 years, and he finally got off. He never did it. It was pure racism, pure evil. But he told me this very impactful thing about how he used his imagination to save him while he was in solitary confinement, and he would, in his mind, go to lunch with the Queen of England. He was obsessed. This guy from Alabama was obsessed with the Queen of England. And so he would go there in his mind. And then he decided that he should marry Halle Berry in his imagination. And so he did. And it sounded so funny when we were having the conversation, but of course the fact is that we all live in our imagination all the time, and often to our detriment. Like we've often let ourselves get carried away with an idea that is only kind of half true. And of course the negative has such a pull on us.

So I was trying to clean out some stuff on my laptop, which is a huge mess and starting to act funky. And I stumbled over this set of emails that I had sent to my dad after he died, which is a dumb and weird thing to do. But you know, I also have my dad and my friend Liz, who died the same year, in my favorites on my phone. And I like bumping into them there. I like seeing their little faces in the middle of a day when I'm looking for someone else's phone number. And I just don't think I'll ever take them off. And so I thought I would share this, just five of these very short emails that I sent to my dad that summer, in honor of Anthony Ray Hinton, reminding me that we should corral our imagination to our own comfort, instead of just letting it run away with us and drive us mad.

My dad died in February 2015, and this I sent in July. Dear Greenie, I met a guy from Baltimore last week on a shuttle to the airport. He was born a year after you and looked like he shopped at Jay Banks and Brooks Brothers and maybe even bought his teeth at the same place you did. I knew he was from Baltimore as soon as he said hello to the bus driver. That accent, so singular. Edward talked to him for a while. I smiled at them, grinning like a mad woman. It reminded me of how much I love to watch you and Edward together. The enthusiasm was just the same. I knew Edward knew what it was doing for me. Eventually, Paul, that was his name, he said he had heard of the Corrigan boys. He gave Edward his email. What they will write each other about, I don't know, but it was adorable listening to Paul spell his name. AOL account, of course. After I watched Paul get off carefully one step, then the next, my eyes burned with tears. You were so close. I really miss you. It still hurts so much. Lovey.

This email is from the same summer, and it refers to the last book my dad read, the book that was on his nightstand the day he went to the hospital and never came home.

Dear Greenie, I finally started The Boys on the Boat. I understood immediately why you loved it, the way the writer establishes the meaning of shared experience. Of course, the boat transcends the actual rig. We had a boat, you and me, that we rode together, that took us great places, that showed off our synchronicity, our flamboyant harmony. The writing is really smooth and smart and nostalgic, just the way we like it. It's not going to be easy to get through. I can tell Joe is going to die with his daughter watching. But maybe if I read it every night before bed, you will turn up in my dreams and give me those extra minutes I've been begging for. Or maybe there's something about the story that will set me right, make me sturdier, sturdy enough to walk the world without you. I'll let you know. Please come back. Love you.