One of the regrets that I have is that I don’t have much of a photographic history of my youth. Somewhere in this house I am sure that there are photo albums. There wasn’t any monetary value in them so I am sure that Valerie didn’t steal them.
From what I remember of them they are happy photos of mom and dad when they were in love, or what resembled love for them. There are photos of me at the beach. There are photos of a life that was too short. Short in comparison to the alternative life that became mine.
All the happy shiny memories of that time don’t take up as much space in that head of mine as the memories that exist there today. They are shiny and happy though.
The complexity of loving my father, hating my father and eventually just waiting for the moment when the announcement comes that he is no longer here wears on me lots of days, but more so on Father’s Day.
I lost the ability to care about Lewis in 2008. That doesn’t erase feelings though. For the little girl who I once was, for the son I am raising who doesn’t know a relationship with his father or grandfather. It’s painful when I let myself dwell on it so I spend a lot of time not allowing myself to think of it.
Just like I don’t allow myself to think of Gei, and how he fixed me. Just like I don’t let myself think of how broken I was then. Just like I don’t let myself think about the fractures that still exist for me.
In antithetical behavior for me last night I sent him a text message. I wished him a happy father’s day. I would take that back if I could, even though I was compelled to do it for some reason. I don’t want to open that chapter again, no matter how wonderful it was or how obscenely terrible it was.
I talked to Daddy today. He made me smile and he made me cry. That’s a good thing.