Dear daddy who I never met

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We didn’t get a meeting. Although you knew my name. I feel your loss so deeply. I suffer from this pain.
Since I was eleven the need for you has grown. It’s the echo of my heartbeat for the love you’ve never shown.

So many life events have come and gone without you presence near. Now at the age of thirty it’s too late for us I fear.
It’s not like I was angry or that I hated you.  You were the man who fathered me. I had hoped you’d just arrive on que.

But gone without a word you are without meeting your precious grandson.
I have missed you dad. I have missed you. Was I really the silly one?

If you could tell me how you feel like pride and joy and love. I could make a logical case that you were watching me from above. But in life, as in death, I fear you’ll keep away.

My wish to you like every year is Happy Father’s day.

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Posted from WordPress for Android 2015

Our Children are Not Our Own

Terrified:

Thoughts for new parents.
I absolutely loved the honesty and fluidity of this piece written by my newest follow Writer Mama on her On Borrowed Time blog.
God bless all who reads this and if you don’t believe in God, well a little blessing couldn’t hurt either way.

Originally posted on On Borrowed Time :

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth…

-Khalil Gibran-

     We called her Megan Isabella, this little one, this Other, who called me to the world of motherhood and responsibility, and whom I could neither comprehend nor…

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525 words: Waiting for change

I am waiting.

It could be sitting at the train station waiting for the next train.
I see the young man with a huge bouquet of pink lillies and avalanche roses on the other platform. He is pacing. It is an excited pacing. I don’t know. Somehow I can just tell. I try to picture the lucky woman in my head.
Nearby a clique of teenage girls are laughing. You can just tell it’s about a boy. Yes… The red head girl is clutching her phone to her chest and asking her girlfriends for advice about what to say next. All of them excitedly give ideas. But wait two of them are walking away from the festivities now. The tall one wearing too much make up for a school girl in uniform is crying. The shorter friend is comforting her but now the group notice and follow them asking what’s up. I actually raise my brow at the red head. She claims her friend is being a drama Queen because it’s not about her. The short girl is telling her to shut up. The others are standing off to the side to watch the drama unfold. Someone is saying the red head is being unfair. Ah! The blonde chips in and says they are both being divas. Apparently the tall girl wearing all the make up has been crushing on the same guy.

This will rip them apart if they let it.

The train on the other platform is coming in. I am afraid I will miss the guy giving the amazing bouquet. It’s her reaction I anticipate most. I would tell him how much I love them. I would compliment his very romantic gesture.
How charming he seems as he straightens up.
Lots of passengers disembark. I smile until my cheeks hurt. It is not what I was expecting at all. Love.
She might be his mother or grandmother. I don’t know for certain but it is wonderful. I love her reaction the best. He seems to be playful with her. He has given her his arm and taken her bag. It makes me wonder who his father is and how well his mother must have been treated for him to be the gentleman he is today.

If someone saw me now they would think I am crazy.

Uh-oh. The girls are both crying now. The short girl is encouraging them to hug it out.

I am sitting on this platform waiting for a train and people watching. Then the thought occurs to me. Is someone watching me?

And suddenly I feel self conscious. I touch my hair. I sit up straight. I look down on my shoes and wish I hadn’t worn my scuffed booties. They look old and beaten up but I am comfortable in these grey little lovelys.

Why am I here? I am waiting to take a train. At the end of my journey I will be a successful author. I will no longer be crying about boys. I will be meeting my son raised so wonderfully by his father.

I am waiting to be ready.

Posted from WordPress for Android 2015