To Reconnections

For my 22nd birthday, I received something that made me cry. I’m not sure what it is was exactly, or if it was everything, that tipped the tears from my eyes. I try to avoid writing about my family or anything more personal than my thoughts. I read a piece by Janne Robinson yesterday though. It was about how she never got to know her grandpa before he passed. I don’t want that from my life. I love my grandparents, they’re the parents I always wished I had but my grandpas 93, and every day I say I should call and every day, I don’t.

I went to the post office yesterday, I had a letter from home. I was expecting the usual gift of something I’ll never use, instead I received a letter that had the standard HBD and a scrawled “love mom and dad” in my mothers hand writing. It hurt. Not in a I’m home sick and miss them kind of way like one would think. My dad hasn’t said Happy Birthday since he kicked me out 4 years ago, maybe longer. That card? He probably doesn’t even know my mom sent it and signed his name. Just like she’s probably signed my name on his fathers day card without asking me if I wanted to send him anything. We just don’t talk.

I gave up on a relationship after he ruined my graduation and I spent the night crying in my boyfriends arms. I just couldn’t understand at 18 how a man with 40 years on me couldn’t make any effort at having a relationship with his youngest daughter. I still don’t, that much hasn’t changed. But I don’t even know his story. He was adopted, I don’t know what age. I don’t know what it was like to grow up the only black, left handed, adopted boy in a tiny town in BC, Canada. I don’t know the names of over half his siblings. I don’t know my biological or my adoptive grandfathers first names. Or who Phylis really is related to, just that we like her. Everyone always jokes on fathers day that girls with daddy issues will struggle, try having fathers day and your birthday and major unsurfaced heartache hit you like a bus, all at once.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told its impossible to shop for me. I generally don’t find myself needing anything. And I have a body shape that looks like you’ve cut different peoples “assets” apart and plastered them to mine, so clothes are not an option. Most the time, I end up getting nothing. Which doesn’t bother me, but I always thought how nice it seemed for people who know exactly what to get someone, exactly what they’ll love or will make them laugh. Like a favourite chocolate bar, I would never say no to Reeces.

I received a book. I read horrible books, I know it and so does everyone else. Usually romance, sometimes paranormal, possibly erotica, always sappy about how so and so’s world is ending. I’m a little embarrassed, considering how much I love to write, but I’ve tried and tried and can never get into a “classic” novel. This book however is none of the above. I feel like I’ve been given incite into the owner of this book, my muse. He lent it to me with the message that it is one of his favourites and I should read it, and I love it. I love it for the out of the ordinary way of writing, the time they’re living in and the  sentimental value that it now holds for me. I’ll admit that I didn’t react in any way when I received the present, I struggle to show strong emotions in front of people, fear of judgement. But the next day, seeing it sitting on my bedside table and getting that card from home, I broke down. For a present, for a book, for the love I knew was missing but didn’t realize I needed.


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