You are my love for beer. You are my love for nothing. You are the language I will never speak. You are the crack in my ankles. You are my silence in the morning. You are my hesitation after the question to which I already have the answer. You are who I’ve become and who I’ve refused. Who I’ll never be. You are my lack of interest in strangers, you are my decisiveness at a moment’s notice, you are my preference to be alone.
But you have settled for the things I won’t accept. You have denied yourself the things I still seek. When I was young, I regretted your absence, although a part of me always understood it. Even at a young age, I could empathize with your struggle.
Now, I am as old as you were when I became a possibility. When my story began. I feel grown…filled out when you’re around. I imagine you as I am now–youthful, strong, smooth, full– smiling at my mother, not even seeing the life that would result. Yours, mine, my mother’s and my brother’s. Have I also started those stories? Do we notice the beginnings like we wait and anticipate the endings? Has the die been cast? I’ve been careful always with the beginnings. Always cognizant of your mistakes. Mistakes? Cognizant of the pain you’ve left in your wake.
“Intuition, I have that sometimes.”