Daddy

I wrote you letters one year, after spending days looking up people with your name, getting the addresses and taking a big breath. I thought out my words carefully, wanting it to sound right, wanting the words to draw out some instinct in you to want to meet me. 

Dear Sir (how could I ever call you daddy, a word so foreign on my lips), 

My name is Michelle. From what my mom told, you were the other half of how I came to be. I never met you. I heard you met me once. I was a newborn, so the memory is not one that we share. But knowing that always made me think that maybe, just maybe, you did want to know me. So I am writing to say hello and introduce myself to you.

You'd be proud of me, the woman I have become. I was a wife and I am a mother. I am told I look like you, which bothered me since I always seemed to look so different from my siblings. My mom always told me I had your build: kind of short, thicker thighs. But she also told me stories of how you met, on the dance floor. And I guess that's where I get my love of dancing from. However, I know you both won contests whereas I am more clumsy. But I still have fun. 

Did that come from you as well? 

My siblings were more athletic while I was the bookworm. If someone couldn't find me right away, they knew to find a secluded spot and I'd be curled up with my latest book. My mom was a reader, so I'm sure that came from her. But were you as well?

The fact is, it takes two halves to make a whole. Even if you walked away, scared or spineless, whichever it was, you are part of the reason I am who I am. Can you fault me for wanting to put the pieces together? 

I only wanted to know where the parts of me that don't fit in came from. They had to come from you. I want nothing from you but the rest of the puzzle. 

I'm intelligent and curious. There is truly not enough ever to learn in this world. I'm outgoing but also shy, very shy. I also have a wicked sense of humor and a heart of gold. I don't show the heart part too much. That's where I am more inward and cautious. 

When things got hard or I got hurt, I had moments of anger. I cannot lie. Anger that maybe, just maybe, if I had had a daddy, he (you?) would have protected me. But that never happened and I abandoned fantasies of Knights in Shining Armor at a very young age. I've probably always been too realistic for my own good. My mom was more of a dreamer; I am more of a thinker and a doer. Did that come from you? Or did it come from you not being here. 

Sometimes, when in a crowded place, I find myself seeking out your face in the crowd. But such foolishness there since I don't know your face. I guess a part of me always figured that if I did ever find you, I would just know. 

But yes, I wrote you letters, many letters. Some came back with beautiful replies from men with your name but no connection to me. One came back: Return to Sender. I always thought that was maybe you. Or maybe it was a young woman, embarking on a new life with a new family, wanting to somehow fill in the holes. 

After those letters yielded nothing, I gave up the idea of finding you. I always figured if I wanted to bad enough, it would happen. That's how I see the world: Effort yields Results. I think I stopped out of fear: fear of being let down . . . again. Fear of knowing that you disappeared on purpose and never thought of me and wanted me nowhere in your life. Fears grounded in a reality that is very clear. 

I'll never call you Daddy. I always figured if I met you, I would call you by your first name. Formal. Unfamiliar. We are strangers after all. But a part of who I am is from you. That won't ever change. 

I've recently began wondering about you again. Wondering about your life. But I am no longer a foolish girl hoping for the impossible. I leave it to Fate now, which I've never much believed in. 

But maybe one day, you'll meet me and see what you missed out on. And I'll see where the unfitting pieces of my life finally lie. Because the truth of the matter is this: you can walk away but you always leave something behind, pieces of you.

And those pieces of you reside in me. 

And it's really not fair that I was left alone to figure out where they all go since I never got to see where they came from. 

I'll never call you daddy. I've grown too old to even understand what that means.

But you also must know this: You are one. Rather you want to be or not. 

Stone

I told myself I would go to the cemetery on Monday . . . Tuesday . . . possibly today.  But I just can't . . . not anymore. 

Because I've said my good-byes . . . many times. There are no more. 

So talking to a stone, sitting in front of it, tracing the outline of your name . . .  

It no longer feels necessary.

But feeling connected to you is necessary. 

So incredibly necessary.

And I wish I knew how to do that. 

I heard a character on show say once:

it's not us that haunt you, it is humans who haunt us.

Maybe that's true . . . not wanting to let go. Not knowing how. 

But maybe that's what needs to happen, for everyone. For you. For me. 

For peace. 

Because, some days, there is no peace. I'm too caught up in should've, could've, but no would've. Not anymore.

Can't make amends to the dead.

So I feel drawn to sit in front of stone, tracing the words. 

Your name.

Hoping to feel closer to you.

To hear your voice again.

But again, useless wishes of the living. 

You're no longer there.

Or here.

An unnecessary wish for closure.

All that is needed is forgiveness.

You granted it. I granted it to you.

Maybe now I'll fully grant it to myself.

I feel you sometimes. It amazes me how solid a memory can become. 

A ghost of flesh and blood. But not. 

It's only me filling out the void and giving it shape. 

But it's no longer necessary to kneel in front of a stone and sob for you.

For what is no longer there.

But you are still here . . . .in a new way. 

In my thoughts, memories, parenting, daughters.

So maybe I'll sit in front of stone tomorrow, even if unnecessary.

And I'll allow myself to cry . . . for me.

You no longer need my tears.

But I need them. 

Even after all this time.

The cleansing . . . leading to more forgiveness.

More moving on. 

And I'll trace your name one more time.

And wipe my eyes and stand up.

And realize, finally, I was never saying I was sorry to you.

You no longer needed it.

I was apologizing to myself. 

And learning to be okay . . . 

 . . . without you.

And knowing it's what you wanted all along when you looked at me, one last time and said:

"Be good to yourself, Shelly. You'll be okay"

Yes, Mom, I will be.

And I am. 

Almost. More than I was.

And that is enough for now. 

Ponderings at 85

I knock on her door, more as a greeting than an invitation. I have been letting myself into her small apartment for years now. She meets me at the entryway with a cup of coffee, her own already on the side table. If I know her, it's spiked with a shot of whiskey. She smiles when she tells me "It's what has kept me around for so long." 

I also notice her journal and pen lying next to her coffee. I know this means today I will be silent as she speaks. I love days like this, gleaning a wisdom from her that only her age could afford. 

"I was just looking through old pictures. I was quite the looker in my day. I never saw it, though. I don't think we ever do. That's the saddest part of looking back, knowing how much we missed." 

"You're still the looker", I tell her.

"Oh, don't flatter an old lady. My beauty has faded. I'm okay with that. I had it once, that's enough. I was such a late bloomer, at least that's how I saw it. I spent my youth hiding: behind too much mascara and eyeliner, behind books, big words, fear. Oh, I was so scared when I was young. Scared of falling in love, not being loved, failing. Damn, I wasted so much time, fearing life. I lived on the edges, barely dipping my toes in, feeling the cold and running away." 

She lets out a big sigh and goes quiet. I know I need to stay quiet, let her get lost in her thoughts. 

She takes a drink of her coffee and takes a deep breath.

"It's amazing what we remember when we look back. I remember always being the rebel. I hated the idea of having to fit in, to mold myself. I ran from that. Even as a wife, it was so uncomfortable to try to fit into the mold that seemed laid out for me. I never wanted my wings clipped; I wanted to fly. He hated that, always trying to put me in a cage. So frustrating it had to be for him, trying to keep me grounded while I was fighting so hard to find my own path. One of the hazards of marrying young, I guess. I was so idealistic. Thinking marriage would solve everything, put me where I felt I truly belonged. Instead, it caged me in, dampened my passion. That was the worst part: how dead I felt inside. I never felt alive until I was free: free of expectations and others dreams. I had to go alone and find my own. Boy, did I cause an upset when I discovered myself and made the reveal. But I tell you, I never felt more amazing that day."

I nod at her and sip on my coffee, understanding completely, knowing I was now in that place she had already been. Knowing how scary painful and amazing it felt to shed expectations and stand bare, become a blank canvas. 

"I remember the first time I fell in love. So many assume it was my ex-husband. How sad it wasn't. He was more of a roomate. We were never comfortable with each other. Goodness, I was with him almost twelve years and the man never saw me pee. How can two people be such strangers? But love, oh, what an exciting Spring that was. I still remember that day, in a hotel. I had just come from a hospital, devastated at the news of my Mom's cancer diagnosis. He opened the hotel room and I fell into his arms. I fell in love in that moment. All I remember is the sound of his heart beating against my cheek as I laid on his chest and sobbed and he wrapped his arms around me. But as usual, it ended. I was never quite the same after that. But not in a bad way. I got to experience, once, something good. But love blinds us to the bad and over time, reality crashes in, revealing truths that were hidden before. But I don't regret it, not the beginning nor the end. I never understand why people spend so much time regretting things. You never learn anything that way, except how to be angry."

She pauses and I get up to refill our coffees. I notice a postcard on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker. I understand the conversation now.

I take a chance and ask her a question "The postcard, I'm sorry, it was out. The one you loved, is he the one who died?"

A tear falls down her cheek and she takes a deep breath "It's amazing. I stopped loving him so many, many years ago. It feels like another lifetime. But to know someone is gone you once loved, it still hurts."

I place my hand gently on hers and she squeezes it. She pulls her shoulders back and smiles, "Enough talk of ghosts. There is plenty of time for that after. Thank you for humoring an old woman."

"I enjoy these talks. I learn so much from you. Your life, your views, you've had a wonderful life; you're having a wonderful life."

She laughs, a soft chuckle. "Oh sweety, I have lived. So many disagreed with how I did it. But I don't. I don't regret the lovers, the risks, the words, so intimate, that I put on paper for others to read. I wonder how many of them knew how much of myself I was revealing in those stories. I guess it doesn't matter now. As long as people were reading them, I didn't fuss much over what they meant to them. That's for them to decide: what the story is."

"After we broke up, I never really did a serious relationship again. I wanted to, sometimes, but I was a lot to handle I assume, not following the rules. But how boring that would be. What man in his right mind wants a well-mannered woman? I know the type, a boring one. But I had fun, regardless. Even if I was a handful. Who knows, I still have some life in me, maybe I'll still meet a man with big enough hands"

I laugh, hoping to have even a small part of the mischeviousness she still holds onto. 

"You know, I was still scared, even as I got older, So scared of all of the same things. I don't know if we ever get past that. But I decided one day to do it anyway. To take those risks. And sometimes, it hurt so bad when it all came crashing down around me. But one day, I decided I would rather be scared and do it anyway and feel something than to miss out. And you know, honestly, those things I was so scared of, those things that almost broke me, looking back, they were never as big as I thought they were. It's like waiting for the monster to come out from under the bed and one day, deciding to grab a light, look under there yourself, beg him to reveal himself and realizing, he was nothing more than a mouse. That's a good day."

She stands up, grabs my face and gives me a kiss on the cheek, "I always love when you come by. You make me feel young again."

I smile, knowing we both know it is she who makes me feel young, feel alive. How I hope to have her spirit when I am older. How much I want her spirit now.

"Are you rushing me off?" I laugh.

"Of course I am. I have a date. I told you, I'm still searching for that man with the big enough hands and strong enough shoulders. That's what keeps me young: hope. Once you lose that, you lose everything."

With that, I put our now-empty coffee cups in the sink and say my good-byes. 

As I'm leaving, I catch her looking at herself in the mirror and know, at that moment, she still sees herself as a young woman wanting to take on the world . . . 

 . . . and I have no doubt she will.