Until he died. Or until he never did, I guess. Since he’s alive and well.
Not well, apparently, either.
I’m dying.
I drive through what seem like endless streets of this town that used to be my own, back when the house was sullenly quiet from trying not to upset the man and his best friend—the liquor. Back when the arguments were quiet at first behind closed doors, then out in the open where anyone could see. Worse on the weekends.
Hundred proof. Cigarettes. Deep, low voices. Loud TV. The things that tainted this place I used to love.
The placesheused to love.
But he messed that up too.
And five years ago he, what? Wanted to make amends? After she was gone?
No. Too late.
I’m dying.
No. No. No.
I drive aimlessly, letting the songs about fathers, dads, sons, and daughters fill the space until I can’t take it anymore and turn it off. Just my labored breathing filling the space between the metal, the leather, and the AC.
Ground yourself in something you can see.
People.
People with a pep in their step on the sidewalk. Fathers holding their children’s hands, swinging some, hugging others. Generations and generations of people walking down the street. Things I will never have. Things I hate, I can’t even dream formyself because I fear that will be me too. A shitty ass husband and dad.
Just like him.
I refuse.
His curse, which started with his grandpa and then followed down a generational path of destruction, ends with him. I won’t tempt fate. I won’t do it.
I shake my head. I thought I was done with the self-hating when it comes to him, but I guess I have more healing to do. Can’t wait to talk to my therapist about this.
Where even am I?
I take a second to compose myself and look around. Somehow, I parked right in front of a place called The Blooming Wine. Looks like a winery and flower shop?
I scoff.
How fitting.
Wine for him. Flowers for her.
Exactly how my parents were: one in search of something stronger, the other always searching for something beautiful.
Just like me right now.
Except, I don’t drink. Thesomething strongerhas to be something else. A workout? A scream fest? Going for a run? Anything.
My breath leaks out the moment I seeher.
She’s so happy, smiling ear to ear, talking to customers wearing floral overalls, her sunset hair cascading around her face. Such a contrast to what I’m feeling right now. She’s floating in a space of happiness while I’m here, contemplating how my life, the one I worked so hard to heal, started turning into the same shitshow as before.
She’s standing in the middle of the shop, and now that I look closely, there are books too. Books she seems to be ringing up with that smile I want to replicate for myself.
