Into every piece, an artist pours a part of himself. In fact, it is probably what makes the piece Art, those evident elements of emotion. As a writer, I don’t think the idea of a piece exists until prompted by passion. It’s the passion that generates the necessity for the work, the intricate details of its intendment, and the will to bring it to life. For me, that passion has never come without sacrifice.
On the eve on October 25, I received the unbearable news that my only child had died, thus beginning the darkest days of living; because Tara was color. She gave meaning to life. She was the force that drove us forward, that made us want to be ever better. There was liveliness to her eyes, a wit to her words. And when we looked upon her smile, it had a way of brightening everything around her. Her presence dissolved the dark. 
Yet for all her beauty, she gleamed far too brightly, her brilliance often burning upon itself. In her zest for living, she often took the harder road. She was a beacon that feverishly guided my words and impelled me. Then without warning, it vanished.
I now look upon The Story of Us. (That is the name I thought most appropriate.) When I began it some time ago, I had inscribed it with the dedication: To my daughter Tara…for all that you are too me. I always thought she would read it one day and truly realize she was all that ever mattered to me. But the mundane factors of life quelled the greater cause. I did not express it in time.
There only remains the passion of her memory, heightening and hindering. She fuels me now to quicken the words, though I have little compassion for the comfort of words. I want only to bring her colors to life, to express in words the potency of her being, to immortalize her at least within my own art. For once I have, the world will know her brilliance too.