Writing About My Father, Day 14
You have to learn to trust yourself, which is harder to do when your life is a perpetual back-phrase. There’s the beat clear as an empty glass and there you are with no interest in the downbeat, only what dwells in the space before and after it, not the inhale, nor the exhale, but the unexplored galaxy between breath and beat. This makes you a difficult child to understand. This makes you a child of too many questions, one whose curiosity could kill off all the cats in a large East Coast city. You become a teller of stories, a connector of dots. You are a puzzler of secrets in full view of whoever will sit still in the auditorium long enough for the words you’ve coded onto the page to reach their ears. To your father you are someone different though exactly how he cannot say as your edges are difficult to grasp. You are the kind of child who waits on a radiator like a bomb or a stack of junk mail. who gorges herself on cake and on patience. You are a child who has made herself too much out of nothing at all. He might call you a liar if he really knew what you whisper sitting in the room by yourself. Or he might not see you at all even if he tried very hard to look.