Not having a television means I don’t have to sit through commercials about how I should love, appreciate and buy something for my father. YouTube pushes commercials but so far I’ve not been hammered by these things too much. It seems though, Father’s Day has gotten under my skin and played out a bit in my dreams.
I was in a house with a very, very long hallway with burgundy coloured carpet. I got word that my father was in the back of the house so I ran to meet him. I called “Dad!” but he ran from me. He ran out of the back door, got in a car and left. What he left behind was 20 of his children who gathered to see him. The children sat in groups, some were twins, quadruplets and quintuplets. The outgoing half of a twin came over to me and began massaging my shoulder. He was such a tiny thing but he tried to relieve my pain. An older sister who knew him reminded him to be gentle. He skipped off, climbed a small ladder and sat with the group of all my half siblings.
At that point my father returned. When came back, my mother appeared behind me then went back in her area of the house just as quickly as she arrived. My father and I stood face to face. I thought, he’s ugly. When he stood in front of me he put his hand over his heart, looked down and said, “You look just like her, just like her.” The sound in his voice was loving.
I tried to follow him into the area of the house where my mother lived but the door was too small. He and my mother could go in but I and my half siblings were too big to squeeze in there, even the tiniest of them were too big. We all talked together and discovered that we’d abandoned his last name and anything at all to do with him. Even the small boys had their last names changed so that the birth name could not be passed on, there would never be another generation of men with that last name. It dies with him. I felt satisfied. I woke.
There are only 3 of us kids. My brother was taken away at age three.
Did he love my mother more than the other mothers in the dream? Why would I care? I don’t think about the love of him or my birth mother. I throw myself at strangers to get that need met. Why should I care if you and my mother go into a private room and abandon us outside? I go inside my head all the time and deny, deny, deny the need to be someone’s daughter. I hate you for not coming back for me.
Why did I say that? What a childish wish. You had no idea what she would do. I know you tried to see us. I know you called. I remember your voice over the phone but my heart still screams for any savior to come along and take me from her grasp. I hate you because fanciful thinking says you should have tried harder and that life with you would have been better. How could I know that? I don’t know that, all I know is my history and my desperate heart.
Father, my heart is desperate.