This piece is representative of me connecting the dots and reflecting on how my memories, my parents, and the impact they unknowingly leave on me affects, and will continue to affect, my life.
I am the by-product of a funny set of people.
I’m like my mother in the way that
I am in constant crisis;
“I didn’t grow up with a family dynamic, so I don’t know how to be any other way.”
When the world is calm
We’re the storm watch centers
On high alert
Because every calm we’ve ever encountered
Is the prerequisite to a storm;
I’m like my father in the way that
I am able to thrive in the aftermath.
“Make sure you keep an eye on your sister.”
When everyone else is in panic
We’re the lighthearted laughter
That reminds the world
That things are only as bad as you let them be,
That there is a lesson in every trauma.
“Hey, Mom, so I know it’s early, 5:00 a.m., in fact, and you’re at work, but I’ve been wanting to tell you something . . .
“It’s nothing crazy—”
“What is it?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
. . .
“I think you’re just desperate for attention.”
I never believed my mother and I could be anything alike
She didn’t laugh like me
Or make jokes similarly
People said we looked alike
But I couldn’t disagree more
Until I saw that she struggled too
With finding a home in others,
Did I realize we
Were more alike than I had chosen to see
At her lowest point
She is like me
I have been trying to explain the same dilemma
To multiple humans
In hopes of finding one
Who could just
Understand . . .
“Aren’t I a good person? So why don’t people stay? Is this what I deserve?”
And as my mother’s voice cracked
Trying to express
The same pain
“They don’t ask because they care, they ask because they want to know my business. I’m not stupid, because when I do trust them the one time I need them they aren’t there.”
I knew she was me.
I knew people saw what I wouldn’t see.
“I swear looking in his eyes was the worst, he could make you cry on the spot even if he’d been telling you how beautiful you were.”
I never believed I’d been living with my father my whole life
He wasn’t understanding
He never paid much attention
My sister told me I could trust him
But I couldn’t disagree more
Until I found myself telling my little sister the same thing
When she was struggling
I realized when I was battling internal conflict
My father was the beach that I could escape to
At my lowest point
He is my peace.
The first sign was the rustling in the living room. I’d stare into the darkness toward my bedroom door, expectantly. Then, there was his distinct cough, that was my cue to jump out of bed and head to the living room.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Daughter.”
I’d watch him awhile, then walk through the kitchen past the shopping cart acting as a laundry hamper and into the hallway by the door. Pick up the black “work boots,” as he’d call them, and retrace my steps back to the couch where he sat with the news now on. He listened to the traffic report as he got up to put on the rest of his uniform, a Jacobi hospital shirt and his black zip-up hoodie.
I placed the boots beside him, proud that I’d done so before he had time to ask.
“Thank you, are you going to go back to bed?”
I’d nod. “After you leave.”
We’d walk to the door, my small feet following behind the thumps of his seemingly massive ones. He’d stop to reach down to hug my little body and kiss me on the forehead. I’d kiss him back on the cheek.
And as I held our apartment door open, smiling, he wouldn’t get past the first steps before I bid him parting words,
“I love you, Daddy.”
I didn’t see him watching carefully
As I tried to lick my own wounds
He knew when to butt in
More than I could admit
He understood . . .
And as my voice cracked
Failing to express
My pains
He spoke to me knowingly.
He’d always been there for me.
“It’s amazing the things we forget.”
I am
The sun
Sitting in a cave
Waiting to be discovered
By an unsuspecting few.
“You have become the highlight of my day,”
The night
Cascading over mountains
And valleys
They all know my presence.
“I miss seeing you on Saturdays,”
Like my parents.
“You look so much alike . . . even your voices sound the same.”
And although
My easel
Has creaky worn-down legs
And my palette has dull colors
My canvas?
Is F R E E of stains
Smudges or other’s
Previous marks
My mind F R E E
My perspective F R E S H
I am
The artist bound
To take away your breath.
But what you see
Is not what you get,
We are merely numbered dots
Each point
Has a connection to the next.
Connect them all
And what do you see?
Point A to Z; a map of me.