Broken Bottles

I wish I had those old pictures of the two of us. There's a yellow-faded 70's snapshot somewhere back home. I must've only been about three or four years old. He's holding my hand. Our curls are free. He's wearing that cool double-buckle brown belt (I still have it). We look happy. I look safe. Comfortable. To this day, I'm not sure if it's only the memory that I've held on to, or if it's the memory of the actual snapshot instead. Either way, it's good. It reminds me of my dad and how we used to hang out.

Being in Korea, I don't have pictures of the two of us, most old photos are stored away somewhere in a hot dusty storage unit. Perhaps I'll dig 'em out when I go back to visit. There are certain pictures that are worth looking at over and over and over again. That one, with me and my dad and the sun and the sand is one such picture.

Last week, I mistakenly wrote my dad an early Father's Day wall post on Facebook. I had my dates all wrong and was admittedly a little embarrassed about it. But I don't regret telling him how I had been thinking of one time in particular when we were laughing our heads off at the dinner table. He said he remembers it well. I'm glad. I miss him. I miss his cheesy jokes and his laugh and how he used to try the latest dance moves with us in the kitchen. I miss hearing him imitate people or telling us funny stories. I miss it when he'd talk in Spanglish (more to make fun of it, than anything else). I remember when he used to tuck me in at night and bring me hot chocolate--I'm sure he can still imitate the exact way I would ask for it. He was a good sport. Probably still is. Things change though. Divorce does that. I haven't seen my father in a while and whenever I do get to see him, it's a little awkward. Neither of us knows the other anymore. There's a bit of foreign land between us (literally and metaphorically).

It hurts at the strangest times. It was hurting today and not so much because it's "Father's Day" in the States, but more so because there's been this pang that hits me every so often. It gets me right in the pit of my stomach--it was something between an anger and a longing. I can't shake it. It makes me want to break something or cry or scream or just pray. But I can't. Maybe this blog isn't the place to post it, but I don't care. I haven't been inspired enough to carve out the time to write any other entries anyway, so I figured I might as well write this one while I'm in the mood.

~~~~~~~

Dad, I can tell you over and over how much I miss you and how much I love you, but I can't tell if you really get it. All the random times I think of you and how much it hurts that you're not around anymore. I know I'm not alone, there are a gazillion others out there who are in the same boat, but this is my way of getting it out. As always, I wear my heart on my sleeve . . . or on my blog. I'm certainly not the private type, so I hope you don't mind that I'm posting this. I should write to you more, but my pride often stops me. I should visit you some time, but I can't come to grips with meeting you under someone else's roof. Please know that I think of you often. I'm sure that somewhere down the line, you'll be pulling out your white handkerchief again to wipe my tears--I'd like that.

Happy Father's Day. I'll love you always.

P.S. For what it's worth, I wrote this. It's more cathartic than anything else, but I'm sharing it with you as a point of honesty.

Breaking Bottles

it’s like the time I could’ve

broken green bottles but didn’t

How was I supposed to get it out?

all the yelling in my mouth

all the violet in our glass

all the plating on your brass

I went away into my room

slammed the door so you

could listen to yourself

all the spitting that shot out

all the purple on your face

all the hatred we embraced

when I ran across the room

tore the flowers from the wall

untied the knot to let them fall

oh how we all fell

all the weeping that got lost

all the yellow that was white

all the blisters from that night

in my head they were so great

those explosions that kept awake

the startled fire on your thigh

all the sin you felt was right

all the blood that you forgot

all the tears your kerchief caught

who will remember how we

stood in the kitchen (a perfect trio)

you singing to her, “drink to me only”

all the father’s love you gave

all the times we laughed and ate

all the breaking of our fate

I just have to get it out

breaking bottles ‘gainst the walls

something breaking besides ourselves.