The older i grow. The less I feel I belong in my skin. The feeling of wandering to and fro inside this vessel depreciates the value of certain life experiences.
The idea of living somewhere you know isn’t home. It finds me late at night, cold and, desperate. I think back to the home I grew up in for so many years, the home I have returned to so many times in the past 29 years of my life always back to the same smiling woman whom I call mom. For 2 years now that choice was taken from me. My mother passed and, I have refused to deal with the nagging emotional baggage it has brought in her stead. Through the years my mother’s home was a refuge, a safe place, where no matter what I knew I could return. I could return and, not be judged. No matter how flawed and, despicable I am. I never really sat back and, appreciated it or her for what it really was. So much like most unappreciative bastards my gifts were taken from me. I spend more time than not lately reminiscent and, sobbing into glasses that can’t be full enough. It is a relatively simple story, I’ll do my best to make it worth your time.
I was born on July the 4th to a rather unimpressive woman named Theresa Trees. This woman will play no further part in any real form in this story outside the role of incubator. Needless to say through transgressions that can only be assumed as fault of her own I came into living with my parents. ( I could dwell upon stories I have been told and, sordid such things but I digress they do not equal the sum of my parts or have any real reflection upon this story so it would be in vain. )
So regardless of all my past and, futures my mother Gaeatanna Fontan, made me hers and, raised me. Taught me right from wrong. The value of a woman. The measure of a man. Some lessons were taught others observed through her own life. Each person suffering their own shortcomings, hers being her affection towards my father. A proud, stubborn and, mostly ignorant man. ( though do let it go on record that he did provide for my family. Kept us warm and, fed and sheltered. So let not a disparaging word fall upon his person. )
I have nothing negative to say about my upbringing it was nothing to write about. I was raised catholic till one day I wasn’t. Like most children I grew up thinking the world was too small minded to understand me and, all I had to say. The reality of it and, the irony being that I only realize this as I am now in the place I once openly opposed. The truth is that I was too small minded to appreciate the world. I thought my own ideas to grandiose for the “adults” around me to accept. For every narrow minded adult whose unwillingness to accept the truth as i saw it i spat upon there were ten others who had grown and, had that same light crushed out of them by the weight of their own arrogance.
After a time I found myself with a family of my own. I find myself surrounded my my little replicants. They holler and they play and, I smile the same tired smile everyday. But, now she is gone. Taken at random after a period of unexplained suffering. No answer, no quarter given. Just Gone.
So I find myself smiling this same tired smile I so often saw her smiling towards me, knowing that if these replicants of mine ever need my last drop of blood I would give it to them with a smile and, a tourniquet. But the smile is still tired none the less. I sit and, remember some little old thing that used to never matter to me and, suddenly realize it is everything. The rain on my cheek, the ash in my hair, the fire in my belly. It is the ideas we neglect that kill us in the end.
I’ve gone on now for several paragraphs but I don’t feel I have done this pointless story any justice. Maybe just maybe that is the point of the story in the end. My own lack of personal empathy. That gnawing feeling of not belonging in my own skin, the fruitlessness of the question if I was ever worth the hours put into the dreams of one woman so frail like glass bottles we all fall down. Is any of this what any of us thought it would be?
“With my last breath, I’ll exhale my love for you. I hope it’s a cold day, so you can see what you meant to me.
― Jarod Kintz, This is the best book I’ve ever written, and it still sucks