Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.
I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.
Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.
I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.
I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.
I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.
Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?
I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.
I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.
My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.
I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.
I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men
I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?
I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.
I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.
I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.
I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.
I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.
Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.
Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.
Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.
I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.
I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.
Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.
I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.
I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.
I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.
Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?
I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.
I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.
My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.
I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.
I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men
I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?
I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.
I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.
I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.
I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.
I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.
Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.
Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.
Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.
I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.
