30.7.07

Stories.

Think I'm gonna make a few changes here for awhile. I'm not gone or abandoning childish, high school confessional writing, but I'm pretty interested in doing something else for a little while. I apologize for my absence and all, but I've been thinking a lot about what comes next.

I'm always thinking about what comes next. What's in my head this week and for the rest of the week will be stories. Probably my own, but if I think of someone else's, I'll get that out, too. I'll ease in to night with a confessional one. When I try to remember the night my father left for good it's blurry. Time has done a white wash job and I don't know if the details have any crisp snap left. Now I wonder if all memory is some common vegetable. Maybe?

My mom disappeared one day. We all woke up, Kim, dad and me and mom hadn't come home from her 3 to 11. I still don't know where she went. I could guess, but I'm not going to. I don't need to know a lot about my life. She showed up at home around 6 or 7 that evening with Kim and I doing homework at the kitchen table. It was a Sunday. We'd been a little confused all day and I think dad was trying not to show how lost and how pissed he was to us. She came in and told my dad to leave and let him know that she was done getting beat up. I have no idea what words were said, but I know the content and I figure we'll keep this from a child's view.

I think my father was gonna put an end to that nonsense and came at her to do so, but mom pulled a knife out of the block and told him that it wasn't going to happen anymore. I can't remember this part, but I think she cut him to get the point across when he got even closer, I can't be sure. That could be too many movies and a bad memory. He left. We sat on the bed in Kim's room and watched him walking by over and over again getting
his stuff out.

He'd left before, but that was the last time.

You know, I'm really not trying to tell a sad story. Hell, I love my mom for that, and for always maintaining as neutral a POV about him as she could throughout our growing up. We remembered what we remembered and we learned about him what we did and she never had to say a bad word. I'm not a poorer person for this and I'm maybe stronger for the example she set. She did what she had to do and I learned, maybe too well, that you do what you gotta to get the life you wanna live.

I'm not married and I may never be. I don't see it as a wonderful thing. I hate the ceremony and can't see any better way to be let down by an event than to plan a day for a year. None of this matters. I'm not shaped by this and it's not why I am how I am.

It's just a song I sing when you're not around.

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