Sunday, June 21, 2009


There he is, the man who was my father, dead some twenty-five years now. His death gave me back my mother, in a way. She lived with me for twenty-two years after his passing. She died this March, she was seventy-seven years old. Theirs was an arranged marriage. They were together for over thirty years; he was nineteen years older. She came to love him, I came to not. I guess I loved him when I was small and unaware. My mother chose to be unaware; it was what she knew. I left my fathers' house when I was sixteen. Life was hard, but I survived. I have been taking care of myself ever since. I am fifty-five now, I have a masters degree, a job that makes me happy, and a son that I love.
Am I a happy person? Yes, I am. Did I have a happy, shinny childhood? No, I did not. My life experiences give me depth, but my life, the living of it, I color as I please.


Holly said...

Dear One:
This made me cry. This is brave. And true. Courageous. Thrilling in its possibility and call to action. Life is not made of hard things to kill us...but to inspire us to be greater than we ever thought we could. I admire these words so much!

I am glad to be part of the coloring of your life. You are truly wonderful.

elk said...

this was so tender...I hope that it was a help to write it down, I know you helped others today.

Peaches said...

Yes, it did help to write it. The subject was always taboo while my mother was living. Now, after so many years, I put it out there...with my usual economy of words.