It felt like my whole heart broke open the other night and all my convictions were spilled on the floor. I had a dream two nights ago. But it was the realist thing I've ever felt and for that alone, waking up became the hardest thing I've done in a very long time. In my dream, my sister and my mother and I were at my mother's house- the same one we grew up in. But it was present time. I am twenty one and Ambrie is nineteen and we live in Hawaii and we are just home for a visit. It was night, the sky was dark and the porch lights were on. There was someone at the door. We answered it.
It was my Dad.
And I looked him in the eyes. He had aged... twelve years to be exact. His hair was a bit shaggy and his face was a bit scruffy and there was grey laced throughout his dark scraggly locks. He was holding bags, and wearing a tattered blue flannel. He looked as if he'd been on one hell of a journey. Maybe one journey through hell. A traveler... I don't know... He didn't say anything. He just looked overwhelmingly remorseful. And I burst into a crying fit and jumped into his arms.
I could feel him. I felt his arms. And his scruff. And his smell. And the texture of his rough wooly flannel. And it was real. But I woke up. And it wasn't real. Because my dad killed himself twelve years ago. And I saw the stitches, covered in makeup, covered in tape, covered in more makeup- around his neck. And we put him in the ground. And I still know nothing about what happened. Or why. Or how. So maybe that's why, twelve years later, I still think every fucking day that it's possible he might come home. Because it doesn't make sense. And it's never felt real. But I saw him. And I touched him. And I watched them close a casket on his body. But- it felt so real. So real, that when I woke I felt the loss all over again. Like a fresh wound. To the throat. Not dissimilar to the one my dad carved into his own neck, just before he never told me goodbye. He didn't leave a note. He didn't explain why. The last thing he told me was that we were going to be a family again. But it's been twelve years, and we were never a family again. But I still hope he's coming home.
written two and half weeks ago
//: on trauma
I'm busy working on my blog posts. Watch this space!