The 4th of July weekend. Another holiday, another chance, another excuse to get together with family. Enjoy eachothers time. Cookout. Be together. But what if your family moved away? One by one? What if all you have left is your son? There are painful reminders throughout the year, markers, reminding me just how alone I am in this world. The lack of invites to barbecues that I would likely say, “No thank you” to anyway. The pity invites to Christmas Eve get togethers. The memories I have of how it used to be with my family. As dysfunctional as it was, it was mine. And there were traditions. I remember rolling my eyes and getting annoyed having to go every Memorial Day or 4th of July. Now I crave those invitations in silence, not even wanting to admit to myself that I miss them.
My family has moved on. Moved away. Left scars, memories. And I’m left behind, in my home town. More like a ghost town. Wondering when I’ll finally make my escape. I will make my escape. Someday. Eventually. The beauty of that is knowing that no one has influence over me, or where I go, or where I’m going. No one knows what traditions I’m forming. It’s like I’m creating something brand new from the pieces they left behind.
The foundation is and will always be my son and I.
The Girl Without A Face 