My father is a dying breed of the dreamy, optimistic type. He lived his life loosely, and he left his dream gone reality with out a single finger grasping his family. We had all peeled his fingers from our lives, and for this, I sorry. I wish I knew how, personally, I could do this - love you despite your displacement.
I’ve always been liable for my verbal abusiveness, and I’ve always felt guilt soon after. Although this is truer than most, I’ve never been apologetic for what I’ve yelled, whispered, cried to him in fierce jargon.
He brought me up, galvanized my stubborness, and it’s so ironic it’s become a tool to break him. I am Frankenstein. He is a genius of the maddened.
As I sit here, typing away on my iPhone, my mind’s legislation has voted yay to these dismal thoughts, and nay to the occupation of cultivating a new and healthy relationship with my father.
I have little faith in change, but I my agenda has always been compromise by circumstance. Maybe, one day, I’ll grow up just a bit more, and I’ll have no need to ready myself for I already will be.
