Him

I don’t talk about my dad much. There’s not a lot to say.

My parent’s relationship with each other was never easy to say the least. When they were together, they were toxic AS FUCK. Even when my dad wasn’t around, the damage caused was unforgiving.

As I grew up, I learned the severity of that.

Coming down to it, my dad couldn’t be my dad if he couldn’t be with my mom.

I went through all the cycles of loss and grief and anger and all those things. Somewhere along the way, I reached the point of acceptance.

There are so many questions I will never have an answer to and truths I will never know.

It just is.

Back when I was in college, I showed up to my mom’s house one afternoon. She was cleaning out one of her closets and had all sorts of stuff scattered everywhere. In one pile she had a bunch of pictures and things she had of my dad’s. I found this old driver’s license. I decided to keep it. I’m not sure if she knew I took it. I’ve kept it in my wallet ever since. Honestly, I’m not even sure why. I just do.

Every now and then, I look over at the cross from his casket. It’s almost like there’s a string that’s connected to him and I can talk to him. I only tell him one thing: “You couldn’t do much for me — but please just take care of your granddaughter.”