Posts Tagged ‘letter’

Once upon a time, I was a teenager.
And as such, I knew it all.

We all know everything there is to know about life when we’re sixteen. We know that no one knows more than we do, we know that life can’t possibly teach us anything, and we sure as hell know that our parents couldn’t possibly have any advice to impart on us that would be worthy of paying attention to.

Oh, come on.
I know that wasn’t just me.

At sixteen, at seventeen… I knew everything. I used to sit and listen to my Dad wax on about life, and about the things that I should be doing to make mine easier in the future. He talked about buying a house rather than renting, he talked about investing my money early, he talked about a lot of stuff that pretty much went in one ear and out the other.

He also talked about smaller things, like how much different and how much harder life was going to be once I was no longer under the protective wing of my parents care. How I’d have to grow up a lot, and how the things that I thought were so damn easy would turn out not to be.

In some cases, I acted on his advice. I started investing money early. But it wasn’t because I thought he was right, it was to shut him up. I figured that if I did what he thought I should do, then he’d leave me alone about it.

That seemed to work out pretty well.

And then…
I turned eighteen (okay, seventeen and a half) and I moved out on my own.

Something weird happened when I did that.

I started noticing that I was saying things like, “Wow. Dad was right.” Or even, “Why didn’t I pay more attention when Dad was telling me about this?”

I was so hosed.
Dammit, I came to a very harsh realization.

I didn’t know a fuckin’ thing when I was a teenager.

So, because I am the person that I am, and not afraid to admit that I’m wrong, I called up my Dad and told him that I was coming to take him out to dinner. Which I did. And we had a nice little dinner, and some great conversation. Then, over coffee, I told him what I’d come to tell him.

I took a very, very deep breath and I said…

“Dad, I took you out for dinner to tell you something. I want you to know that you were right. About everything. Everything you told me when I was a kid, everything you told me that I didn’t listen to… all of it. You were right. I was wrong. I was a stupid teenager who didn’t know a damn thing, and I should have paid more attention. Because damn, Dad. You’re one smart guy.”

The look on his face was priceless.
He managed not to laugh, very much to his credit.

He thanked me for telling him what I told him, we carried on about our conversation, and when the check came, Dad grabbed the bill and paid it before I had the chance to lay my hand on it. I started to tell him that I was supposed to pay, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.

“Keep your money. You might need it when you have to tell your Mother I’m always right.”

My Dad was a pretty smart guy.
Even if it took me a while to realize it.

The 50-50 Challenge is an idea that Chrissa from A Little Wicked and I came up with. It is based on a list of 50 Lists to Write to Lift Your Spirits, which can be found at Demanding Joy. We were inspired to make it a blog challenge. If you’d like to participate, please do. Be as inspired as we were.

**A huge thank you goes out to Sylak, who found the images for this post. You rock! \m/

This is an open letter to my brother, who does not read my blog.

His not reading my blog is a good thing.  Because if he read my blog, he would read the following, which is just a big old rant about every little thing that has driven, and is driving me fucking crazy about him in the last week.  Because for the last week, he’s been at home rather than at work.  Every day.  All day.  At home.  With me.  All day.  Twenty-four hours a day.  With me.

Dearest Brother of Mine;

I love you.

I had to start out with that, because the rest of this isn’t going to be nearly as nice. In fact, what follows (should you ever stumble across it) is the build up of a week of having you here all day long, every day, for going on a week now. You have to understand, I haven’t had any time to myself, really. I mean, let’s face it, you’ve been hanging around me a lot. And for the Xmas thing, that was kind of cool. But now? I’m going apeshit insane.

First of all, please explain to me at what point you reverted back to being ten years old. Because as far as I’ve researched, it’s only ten year olds that come upstairs, hang around and drive the adults mad by repeating over and over again the following words: I’m bored.

Let me clue you in on something, little brother. You’re almost forty fucking years old. And I? Am not the fucking entertainment committee. I am working here. Or at least attempting to.

And I’m genuinely sorry that I am not a good enough sister to have provided you with a Bluray player downstairs. I didn’t mind the first couple of times when you asked to sit in the living room (aka, my usual office space) to watch the movies on Bluray.

But having you up here all fucking day long is driving me into a murderous rage. And even when I go to my actual office, you’ve got the goddamn TV so fucking loud that I would be better off working in the garage.

And another thing.

How fucking hard is it to get the sugar into the cup? Really? How hard? It’s a little spoon. It’s a big cup. What the hell do you do? Stand back and fling the sugar at the fucking cup in hopes that it will magically land where you want it? Why oh WHY does there have to consistently be sugar all over the fucking counter?

Hey! Know what else? If you spill the sugar, there is a cloth like five inches to your fucking right that can be used to clean that shit up yourself!

Instead, I get the pleasure of needing sandpaper and boiling water to clean the cemented sugar syrup that has fucking congealed all over the fucking counter every single time I would like another cup of coffee. Which, as we both know, happens a lot.

Finally, starting to ask me at one in the afternoon what time I will be cooking your dinner will result in my not cooking said mutherfucking dinner until approximately…. JULY, 2012.

Just.
Sayin’.

Sincerely,
Your fed-up and frustrated sister.

When I turned seventeen, I moved out of my parents house. That year, on my Dad’s birthday, a mere seven months after leaving home, I wrote him a letter. I have written him a letter on his birthday every year since. I will write these letters until I am no longer capable of writing. I may not be able to hand them to my Dad anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still reading them.

Dear Dad;

Happy Birthday!

I miss you, very much. I mean like… every day, I miss you. I miss your smile, and your hugs and your wisdom. I miss you calling me up out of the blue, just to bullshit, or to share a mutual laugh over the latest wacky Mom-thing.

Mostly though, I find myself missing your eyes. I’m not sure how I got lucky enough to inherit mine from you, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t just see my eyes. I see yours. Mine aren’t quite as ice-blue, but there is enough of yours in mine that I am reminded of you every single day.

And that isn’t a bad thing, Dad.

It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. It still aches a bit, but the constant pain isn’t there. I felt kind of guilty about that at first. That it didn’t hurt so much now not having you here. I don’t feel guilty anymore, though. I know you wouldn’t have wanted it to hurt.

I’m happy, Dad.
I’m really happy.
I just wanted you to know that.

It’s been a hell of a year, but it’s been a good one, and on this day I can say that I am truly happy. Thank you for that, and for everything that you gave me, and everything that you continue to give me that makes me smile; that makes me strong.

I was thinking about that last Christmas this morning, when we were all together for the first time in a few years. You were so pissed that you couldn’t help with dinner. Remember that? Ha! I told you I could cook. But your helpful (and sarcastic) suggestions were most welcome nonetheless.

I remember how Brother J and I played guitars for you and sang carols. You really couldn’t sing with us, I know. You were pretty weak, and you were in a lot of pain. More pain than you let on. I knew. I could see it in your eyes, so very like my own.

I remember gathering up all of the coffee cups. And when I went to the kitchen, I could hear your voice all of a sudden. Clear and strong. I walked from the kitchen, and stood in the doorway of the living room and watched you and listened as you sang that song.

My song.
It was the best present ever.

It was the last time I would hear you sing it – we both knew then that it would be – but it wasn’t the last time it would be sung. I sang it to you that evening in the hospital, too. And now, it plays softly in the background.

There are tears, Dad. But they aren’t sad ones.

Tears of love aren’t ever sad.

I love you, Dad.
Give Mom a kiss for me, k?

~L

PS – Yeah… I still wish upon the stars.