Part one: Why did you leave?

I was nearly two when it happened.  My mom had gone through the closet looking for clues.  She found a business card in the pocket of his clothes, my father’s clothes; the clothes she usually laundered.  Looking at the white rectangle business card she held in her hand spurred hot tears.  The logo looked so innocuous, so pleasant- A divorce attorney.  Why couldn’t he find the words?   As a toddler we are encouraged to use words rather than clock  unknowing people bruskly over the head with our toy?  Why couldn’t he find the words?   Not even Goodbye?

Perhaps Tomorrow?

I stare at the phone,

Thinking how it would feel to pick it up,

Thinking how it would feel to make the call,

Thinking of how many rings will go unanswered,

Or if it will be intercepted;

Will the voice be a man or a woman?,

Or will it be caught, cupped, collected by some cavernous hole,

that saves my words;

Words that I’ve put out there,

Free but heavy, sticking to the air

Like my breath when it’s cold out

Why am I not concerned… how he must feel awaiting my call?

Not knowing feels delightfully powerful.

 I wait to see if the rebellion in me passes…….

I could easily put his feelings before mine,

I am still the kid he left at the curb,

 waiting, endlessly, a lifetime really

I don’t think I’ll call.

Perhaps tomorrow?.

Your protagonist developed a nasty habit, what is it and why has it happened?

Your protagonist developed a nasty habit, what is it and why has it happened?


     My friend Enid has a whole in her heart.  Her daddy left her at five because of the booze and freedom it allowed him…… to escape from his overactive mind, the drink was a solace he found numbingly beautiful, like a Jeanie in a bottle.    Hindsight figures overly smart types are lacking in common sense and folks with overly high IQ’s tend to be haunted by their overly thinking minds, escape is not optional but essential. The Most widely accepted fix to this terrible affliction, is the easiest and most romanticized drug in the world, alcohol.    What comes next is after drugs is usually sex and in due time comes parenthood.  The hardest job there is.  It just mirrors back the possibility that you have shared those fucked up genes, all of the bad ones, and you will have to cater to two of you- furthermore validating your craziness.   What a ball and chain a cute little giggly, toe-haired child can be; running about the house pleading for love and attention through the strong familiar, desire to be naughty or perhaps driven mischievously to scatter cheerios all over the house just to see how full the box really is?  

     Enid never did recover from the confusion of why he left and didn’t come back.  One day he was making her scrambled eggs and playing his guitar for her, and the next he was absent from the household, just gone like the baby Elephant at the zoo.   Today she hates scrambled eggs and guitar music makes her cry almost as sure as a Pepsi makes her burp.

     Enid channeled the inner storm of her childhood dismay like a wrecking ball takes to a 100 year old building, leaving with it the dust cloud of debris.  

      In her twenties she was a whirlwind of recklessness, dropping LSD, taking hallucinogenic mushrooms finding her way into a man’s heart via his bedroom or backstage, or  the back of his car, craving his affections as if it were fine chocolate-a desire, a need that no one could possibly satiate for her.  She had an unreasonable request to be the focus of all attention and intentions.   She soon learned to be the people pleaser as if every win was a knock down, a gold belt win enough to bring her daddy back.  She did everything to be pretty, cause people like you when your pretty.   She tended to her white blonde locks with obsessive brushing to bring out the shine.  She became cat-like in the way she strutted around silky and demure and luring men in to play with her like she were a kitten and a man, her ball of string.  There was no limit to the number of men she could have, she was a beauty.  She had delicate fingers, long shapely legs with perfect thin ankles, and when etched with a dangerous shade of red, her full lips became only second to her best feature, her hips.  In the quiet of her mind, she played a game with herself she called “I want him, I shall have him.”  Quietly from across the bar, or the beach, or the classroom, or paused at a crosswalk, she would summon a male companion with the same lure that allows her to guess what your thinking- the powerful, childlike longing of her broken soul.   She would punish each and every one by sucking them in like a vampiress, with her masterful prowess.  Then she’d discard them as if they were silvery Pinks in the ocean’s icy waters, too small to keep.   As the number grew higher the gaping hole grew bigger and the tears she held in could have filled the Red sea.  She stomped them out like a high heeled pump distinguishes a lit cigarette, grounding it into the ground. Then Enid wondered why she felt so alone.

Raising the Dead

If you could choose to answer the unanswered questions of your life, would you?  Or are you the type of person to be eerily placated by the importance of the lesson that remains of the unknown.  It may linger like the aroma of fresh bread or it may jar you awake from a dream, a fully involved car chase at dangerously high speeds headed for a curb-the jolt of your body awakens you.

I had a visit from my grandfather in early August. There is something strange about August. We, my sister and I, knew him as young kids he stayed in California-but he still sends us a Christmas and Birthday card and we send school pictures of our kids from our happy Seattle life.  I feel genuine that I send them to him without any wonder of whether anyone besides him will see them.   He never said boo about why my father disconnected all ties with me or my sister.   I only assumed at two, when he cleared out the bank account on a payday along with my mother’s heart leaving her with two little girls and two diapers that I must have been a crier?   I spent many angry years lamenting his loss.  I think I have three memories of him.  One, the day at the park roller skating on those new fangled skates that came out just after those adjustable metal jobbies with the key and the red leather strap.  He had taken us to the park, I think somewhere in Kent and I skated with June’s daughter June was his new wife and her girl who was really into cowboys and Indians was odd but fine.  It turns out her mother left my dad shortly after that time, for another woman. Early on I was a big believer in Karma and It will forever dictate my actions.  I was about 8 or 9  at the time, this was like the third time I saw him, he took us shopping once after that and bought my sister and I matching velour tops and skirts, hers blue and mine was this hideously brownish rust color that was “in” in the seventies, rust color should never be “in.”  The next time our father was to pick us up for  a Saturday outing we waited at the curb at the corner of our big yellow house staring intently, until we could only stare into our wounded little hearts wondering and hoping that the light blue ford truck, capped with a camper would grace the hill at the top of our street.   My sister went inside but I kept waiting.  He never did come.  I didn’t know I had looked forward to it until he didn’t show up.   Than I didn’t know how to feel, there was a mish mash of tender feelings. I mean, I saw the man as many times as you could count on one hand and I was nearing the age of my daughter now, 9.  He left when I was two and my sister five.   No wonder she is such angry person. She remembers him.  I got rid of all that stuff writing angry angst-ridden poetry in high-school and having heros like JD Salinger to identify with.  I even blamed my father in a very eloquent and cutting, two paged letter handing over all of my hurt, suicidal tendencies and low self esteem.  I put it this way, how could I think I was anything more than a piece of shit, when my own father didn’t love me?   I can recall those moments in junior high, where I’d hold my head down walking the hallways because I couldn’t bring myself to smile, hormones whirling, intellect brewing like fresh Mate tea questioning the world and knowing only half of what I might become with the role model of my life dismally being connected to only my highly anxiety ruled mother.  I wanted desperately to answer all these questions that I shoved aside and stuffed deep within but then the day came  where, I could quite possibly ask him. 

     My father dropped a note on my sister’s door step late one night while she was asleep. At 89 my grandfather finally disclosed to his son where my sister lived. In the morning she called to tell me, guffawing away the tears, as she read me the note.  It had professed many things, mainly how he couldn’t believe she lived so close and that he had looked for her but given up so many years ago.  The most pressing recognition he wrote was that “time doesn’t heal all wounds”  and perhaps it was time for some healing to begin?  Wow, read it again, I told her, half wishing he had mentioned me and half disbelieving that this day had really come.   I truly thought I would read about him when I scoured the obituaries each day with my misguided curiosity of who I’d find left this earth that I had ties to, and the weird fixation on what ailments people die of?  

     I should mention at the advice of a very eccentric naturopath whose name sounded like a Spaniard who discovered another world in addition to the Americas, I contacted my father when I was newly in my career working in media, at 29. I had just gotten engaged and was trying to heal some health issues and as we know weddings make you question the insanity of your own ties in this world.  He agreed to meet me and didn’t mention he’d bring his wife along.  I didn’t realize this would be me speaking to her and him just nodding and shoving French fries at their little one, Gracie. Oh yes did I mention he agreed to meet me and requested the location be Jack in the Box, in one of the seedier strips that exists in Seattle, Aurora.  Not a good sign.  One, I hadn’t seen him in twenty years and two he did this to test my snob factor?  Well ding, ding ding.  It registered at the top.  One thing I learned was never to judge, so quite frankly I couldn’t care less if he lived in trailer, I would have come to visit him, if he had any balls to let his wife quit dictating his life.  What I learned from this meeting was that I didn’t need to see him again, that life was pretty fucking good as far I was concerned and I in fact, had his nose.

     Chapter two, yes two of the lifelong researched memoir, Why did you go daddy?  Or “No wonder I am a lesbian and don’t trust men,” well not quite, let it be known for confusions sake I am happily married to a guy.   I prefer the “So long sucka, You missed out!” memoir but that is the ‘me’ before I learned forgiveness is liberating.  Over the years my mother alluded to a couple of things that perhaps he was too immature and did really just prefer fishing and jazz to family life.   I never heard him talked about, unless I inquired then she got angry and said “oh THAT asshole.”  Or if I was really awful she would say, “Oh you’re just like your father” So, I learned quickly not to bring him up.  Still I would like to give “THAT ASSHOLE” a chance for me to forgive him. The pain has been deep, perhaps like him I feel all things deeply, at this point I don’t know what he is like. I do know my personal worth in this life has become triple-fold.  I feel a message needs delivering from me, perhaps as the writer I have to be. I have a higher urge to make a footprint, change things from the past on a scale akin to Oprah’s resolve.  I challenged myself recently to love me enough for both good self esteem and the absence of a father’s love.  And life keeps getting better.  Forgiveness is worth every last tear drop. Does that mean, I do need to meet with him, or that the mere effort of his contacting my sister with this request should bring my heart to peace?