Stupid Different Chromosome

Well, it’s official. My dad has forgotten my birthday. I wish I could say it was the first time. Well, maybe not. I don’t know. It was last Wednesday. Oh well. He must have been too busy, right? I mean, what other reason could you give? Fuck. It’s strange to think that I am 26 years old now, and yet I’m still the little curly haired kid who would spend his Saturday mornings in front of the living room window, looking expectantly for that certain car to pull up the driveway.

It’s unfortunate, yes, and sad, I suppose. But isn’t there a certain breaking point? Like an age restriction that suddenly prevents you from longing for your absent parent, kind of like restricting licenses after the 70th birthday? It’s like your 21st birthday, in a way, this Long No More day. One day you wake up, and even though you don’t feel all that different, you’re entitled to a newly opened space in your life, regardless of if you take advantage of it or not.

That’s what I want. I want to wake up one day and not have my stomach balled up into my sternum. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it’s my fault, I don’t know. Do other people go through this? Are they longing like I am? Hoping? Yearning? Or have they simply shrugged, sighed, and moved on? Is that possible?

I’ve tried to do that; pretend that he no longer exists and move through my life’s motions as I normally would, a falsified happiness I try to dive into. But that rarely works. For some reason, my mindset needs something bigger, heavier; a challenge that I can engage in and emerge bloodied, tired, worked over, but in the end, triumphant. That’s probably my Y chromosome talking.

The irony is not lost on me.