There are times in which I think I have forgiven my father. I would like to believe I can craft forgiveness, like a project made out of colored construction paper. Then, out of kindness, and because I tire of carrying the heaviness of rancor, I would pull out this beautiful thing from my pocket and just hand it to him. He would acknowledge it, then life could be different.
It has been three years. Count the days and they should spell some sort of relief. One day, and the pain is strong. Three hundred days, and the pain is much the same. Five thousand, and it simply has to be different. Now, it does not feel like it could ever be. The memories will always defy any hope, and all desire to live fully. It is cold comfort that many have been in my shoes. This path leading to this tunnel has been well-traveled, and it all leads to moments of acting out in frustration, seeking to be heard by someone that could provide half an answer. In this stillness, in which present and future do not exist, I see nothing. I know nothing. Everything appears only in its extreme forms, rushing through me like a roaring river, too fast to form an identifiable shape. I ask simple questions and receive complicated answers. The ‘n’ goes here, while the ‘e’ goes there. It is all written out in a language foreign and absurd.
4:49 in the morning, and I wait impatiently for the sun to comfort me. My mother, my heat, my ally. I hang on to what’s left of my mind, but the currents are strong. I heard, and not from a very reliable source, that once in a while, a person comes along to change your life. I wait. I wait and I watch. Just like Nellie Vaughn from her grave. For my name to change in order to remove all trace of my family. Perhaps not immediately, but with time and distance. For a new family that can value the ties that not binds, but unites. For something different, and most times, better.