By Michael Conley
During a custody battle, I began writing letters to my daughter. She was only a baby and could not read them, but sharing those letters publicly helped keep me grounded, moving forward, and committed to becoming the father she needed. When things eventually became more peaceful with her mother, I stopped writing them. Years later, without my knowing, my mom gathered the letters and gave them to me for Christmas. My daughter found them, and since then, the two of us have grown incredibly close. Looking back, I can see how deeply those words influenced our relationship. That is why I continue to write: to preserve what matters, to remain honest about the journey, and to create something meaningful that my daughter—and others—can carry with them.
I Killed Robert Johnson
Let me set the scene…
A backroad south of nowhere. The anxious ball of never-ending energy that is my daughter, and Dad’s old truck. Windows down. Music all the way up.
As soon as the doors close, she unloads 13 years of stress. I listen. I give her my thoughts in return.
We hit the crossroads, and Mr. Johnson starts singing the blues. Her stories get heavy. The cornstalks start leaning in. His demons are coming for her. The crackle of his guitar opens old wounds. It’s a familiar tune.
But there’s peace in the darkness. There’s safety in Dad’s old truck.
The drone of the tires turns her worries into smoke. The truck’s growl can be heard out past Morton. The cornstalks recoil.
I killed Robert Johnson.
By the town limit, she’s out cold.
Those demons can talk to me for a while.
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