The teacher wonders, but she does not ask
It’s hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm,
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
I suppose two things come to mind on October 31st for the average person. The first is, obviously, Halloween.
The second, primary in Christian especially Lutheran, circles, is Reformation Day.
Before Halloween candy, before Martin Luther being all “TAKE THAT CATHOLICISM!”, another day comes to mind. Independence Day. Now, before you think I’ve lost my marbles, I know it’s not 4 July yet. There won’t be any fireworks tonight, although there will be in my heart. And there won’t be cookouts and baseball, because I really don’t care much for either.
Seven years. I moved out seven years ago. And while it was undeniably the best decision I ever met, it was undoubtedly the most painful. No 18 year old should have to make the decisions I made that day, and no 18 year old should have to live through that.
I was, after all, only 18 years old. And I turned my father into the police. I had people I thought I trusted turn against me. It’s so hard to believe it’s been seven years since all that happened. But there are still nights I miss my Daddy.
Yes, he’s a colossal class A asshat. But we’d watch movies together, or sometimes I could convince him to hook up the SNES or my Genesis and we’d play video games. We’d play “Name That Tune” to the Oldies Radio Station, and I’d kick his ass in Bible Trivia. He’d take me to see the movies. I can’t really name that many good qualities about him and he is, at his core, a drunken pedophile, but dammit, he’s my father. I miss him. I miss what I lost, I miss what I never had, I miss what I never will have. I guess that’s normal and I guess it’s the way it should be. But at the same time… I still deeply grieve.
But I’ve changed so many in seven years, and I will change in so many more. Next Halloween, I’ll be wearing a costume for the first time (and it’ll be awesome). The next year, I’ll continue to heal and grow and change. And who knows? Maybe one October, it’ll just pass as fleeting memories.
Like my father’s come to pass, seven years has gone so fast.
|Me at eighteen. Yup. Really, not much has changed.|
And with a broken wing, she still sings
She keeps an eye on the skies
With a broken wing, she carries her dreams
Man, you ought to see her fly