The man who i once told the world
meant the most to me
once told me something like
"o i would love to be a character in one of your stories.... cuz that's the only place people are real to you."
True, this cast of characters does mean a lot, these ones that earn the right to be muses...
and true, he never was one.
True, i regarded him with little weight, the years languidly passing in torrid highs and lows, jealousies and redemptions, triumphs of the ego; and of him i did not daydream enough to write a word. (Those weepy journals do not count) I have come to forgive myself for struggling so long for something i so obviously wanted only for the wrong reasons.
But of the child that came of our years of Trying, i have to write. Or just DO.
I have to write so one day if i am not here, he will not be able to fill her head with all the things i did not say, all the ways i did not love him, and disregarded her. The judgement perhaps not so harsh, when these little stories are left behind -- this paper trail leading her on some path to finding out who i was. My father pushes me to write a will, for her... and though he's right, it gets my head all twisted up in mortality, and how i have to leave some sort of legacy, so she knows who her mother really was.
Amazing how this 'living will' talk can get you weeping about your own life and how you did or did not live it. I daydream of my two boys (you know who you are) taking my ashes up to Clifden, scattering them in the crumbling castle there. Then more in Forest Park -- the home now of my struggle and strength. I imagine what my daughter will think when, at age 20 (my age of budding enlightenment), she reads the revealing journals she's now old enough to comprehend. I think about giving away my book collection to the one man who loves books more than anyone else. And i mourn for my daughter, for a loss that's only imagined, right here in my head. Right now she's sitting across the library, learning how to use a computer. We are dancing around each other, as we often do -- me formulating words about her, instead of Being with her. How odd the concept. But then, it's how it works for me; friends who exist in emails are often closer than the ones right here... because my fingers fly where my spoken words crash and burn.
You've become a character, my sweet blonde one, and from me that's the ultimate compliment.
Her father realized the compliment -- and the insult in that concept way before i did.