The computer is too hot to the touch to even type. I have a fan leaning on us both and it’s not doing a lick of good. I feel the sharp edges of the laptop pressing, searing into me and my skin is starting to get incredibly irritated. And still, we have our tasks to tend to.
Today was Father’s Day. A day we celebrated despite the overall uncertainty we’re all dealing with at the moment, or the grief that my father feels as he cannot call his father this first Father’s Day to see how he is, how everything is up at the farm. My aunt came over. We looked at just enough old photos to feel nostalgic but not melancholy. My mother made hamburgers, and angel food cake and I gave my father a blank hat – which he needed. We did not cry. We did sit around the table and there was a moment of something inexpressible.
I leave her all the time and yet, now, it seems like a punishment to go even though sitting around staring at her as if this is something that can be solved or slowed or analyzed by eyes must be far worse. Instead, we were calm. Sedate. The hamburgers tasted incredible – usual – incredible. The light turned on in the hutch. I don’t know, but I feel, selfishly as though I can carry on with this pebble in my heart rather than needing to sit and rotate around it, rather than hope I can dig it out.
This is petty. Shallow. Childish. And yet, I am so relieved he wrote me back even to further elucidate the reasons we can’t just write rapaciously at one another. These are not moral reasons. These are not reasons I have to fit into my ethical viewpoint. I just have to wait them out. Waiting I can do so long as I know there’s some end point. I have worries enough to spend such a bit of my day pining over someone so shapeless. This is a sad shape, but a hopeful shape. I can understand this and wish the best and feel a cap placed on it that we can unscrew later. Ahem.
+176 words of a letter.