For my father on Father’s Day.
I forgive you. It’s okay.
I’m letting go because that is what is best for me. The weight of it, the lack of story, tradition, history, has simply become too heavy for me to carry any longer.
I’m not sure when pain started attaching itself to me, when the missed, ignored and forgotten became a part of me. It was somewhere between that Christmas and my wedding. I’m sure I picked up some more around the time my children were old enough to ask, “Who’s your dad? Do you look like him?”
Every now and then when I was growing up, usually when I least expected it, something would strike tender. I’d realize I was different until what was missing seeped in and became anger, sarcasm, envy.
This isn’t a tragic story, in fact, it’s quite banal really. No drama, misunderstandings or wasted years trying, in vain, to get along, make it work. The truth is there…
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