My mom always believed in me, my dad always believed I could do better. Are those the same things? If you tilt your head just right and squint your eyes— can you see that they both wanted the best for me?
Oh, I’m not so sure about my dad. I love him, but he haunts me… in the way that classical music lingers with you long after the audience has diminished.
I try not to think about my dad… but every so often he pushes his way into my consciousness and cannot be ignored. Even if he were dead, I’m sure I’d have these same struggles— maybe more so. At least now, there is a chance to prove that life is full of second chances, hopeful smiles, children laughing in the rain, rainbows that never end, butterflies that bid your happiness, squirrels that dance with glee, clouds that never gray, dew that never drops, tears that mean joy.
It’s easier to think of my dad, not as a person who loves me, but as a person I know. That would be far more accurate. Maybe not even “know.” Let’s go for “met a few times.”
Oh, I wish my mother hadn’t believed in everyone. But just the same, her belief and her willingness to see the good in all, has made me. I can’t deny that I’ve struggled against the incongruence of her reality vs. mine. I have lived my life deliberately against both parents’ footsteps. I will not over-indulge. I will not be unaccessible.
Aren’t we all walking a tight rope?
