Eight months have passed since I’ve seen them last. This is a pattern. A horrific unchanging sequence.
It’s been almost 3 years. The ’09 looms carefully creeping up slow. slow. slow. faster faster faster faster.
He wants to forget me. And I struggle for some sort of acknowledgment that I exist. He’s kept me from them. He’s keeping me from them.
Last night I was accompanied by a bottle of wine as I held back the tears.
I find myself in the same place I was when it first happened all those years ago- at a desk, in front of a computer, writing to the air.
It’s Thanksgiving. I’m thankful. But there is this longing in me that yearns paramount. I don’t need anything than the air and some pen and paper, but yet I feel incomplete.
Pieces of me. A faded memory of what I once was.
Evolved. Stronger. Ever pressing.
He will not conquer me.
I’m getting dressed now. It’s almost family time. Of cranberry sauce, turkey, stuffing, and sides of hypocrisy.
Two ghosts shall be at the table. Smiling little faces. Growing. Giggling. Without their real mother because their father refuses to overcome himself.
In my dreams, in another life (can it please be this one) we are all together. We are this modern age “Leave it to Beaver” sitcom.
Mom, the tech entrepreneur and entertainer.. Grandfather the Banker.
Like a Mother duck and her line of babies, except mom has a briefcase and stilettos.
Of little hands and finger turkeys. Of silly nervous faces as they stuff the turkey. Of asking why the cranberry sauce looks like jello but doesn’t taste like it. Of sneaking that last bit of vegetables to the family dog and playing video games with mom. Of the big kid poker game with pretzels and marshmellows… of sparkling cider “champagne just like mom…”
We miss you my babies. Come home. Please let your father come to his senses… and just.. come home for Christmas since you can’t come home today.