Where to now?
I’ll be honest: I haven’t written you back because, quite frankly, I didn’t want to. It was strange; for once in my life, I wasn’t waiting for a response.
I even enjoyed it.
In fact, last week I felt incredible, better than I had in a long time. And it was all because of you. Actually, it’s more because of the absence of you than anything else.
I felt vindicated.
Free of so much anger that I’ve always quarantined deep inside of me.
But then a conversation happened this weekend between my wife and my mother about my relationship (or complete lack thereof) with you.
And I realized something.
I’m doing exactly to you what you’ve done to me all these years: leaving you hanging, waiting for a response, wishing for a hint or clue or anything that would signal you still cared for me and loved me and wanted a relationship with me.
That’s probably why I felt so good; I loved the thought of you eagerly checking your email, a little part of you hoping to see my name in your inbox and then trying to nonchalantly shrug it off.
Maybe that email was actually really tough for you to write. I have to believe it wasn’t easy. After all, you didn’t seem to have any problems calling my wife and actually speaking more to her than you have to your own son in 10 years.
But you asked her for my address.
And you actually took the time to write. Sure, it was brief. Your emails and letters to me have never quite lived up to the hype my brain always conjured up about you. I was expecting an outpouring of honesty and sincerity and apologies. Usually I received a weather report for the Tampa and St. Petersburg region.
Which I cherished, by the way.
But still, you wrote. And for me to turn my back as you attempt (weakly) to start a dialogue once again, would make me no better than you.
And that’s something I can’t stomach. To be compared in any way to you goes against all fiber of my being. In fact, that’s how I’m raising my kid: to do the exact opposite of what you have done for me.
And the first step, like everything in life, is showing up.
Everything else?
Details.
I even enjoyed it.
In fact, last week I felt incredible, better than I had in a long time. And it was all because of you. Actually, it’s more because of the absence of you than anything else.
I felt vindicated.
Free of so much anger that I’ve always quarantined deep inside of me.
But then a conversation happened this weekend between my wife and my mother about my relationship (or complete lack thereof) with you.
And I realized something.
I’m doing exactly to you what you’ve done to me all these years: leaving you hanging, waiting for a response, wishing for a hint or clue or anything that would signal you still cared for me and loved me and wanted a relationship with me.
That’s probably why I felt so good; I loved the thought of you eagerly checking your email, a little part of you hoping to see my name in your inbox and then trying to nonchalantly shrug it off.
Maybe that email was actually really tough for you to write. I have to believe it wasn’t easy. After all, you didn’t seem to have any problems calling my wife and actually speaking more to her than you have to your own son in 10 years.
But you asked her for my address.
And you actually took the time to write. Sure, it was brief. Your emails and letters to me have never quite lived up to the hype my brain always conjured up about you. I was expecting an outpouring of honesty and sincerity and apologies. Usually I received a weather report for the Tampa and St. Petersburg region.
Which I cherished, by the way.
But still, you wrote. And for me to turn my back as you attempt (weakly) to start a dialogue once again, would make me no better than you.
And that’s something I can’t stomach. To be compared in any way to you goes against all fiber of my being. In fact, that’s how I’m raising my kid: to do the exact opposite of what you have done for me.
And the first step, like everything in life, is showing up.
Everything else?
Details.
posted by The Haiku Review at 10:28 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home