On October 3, 1990 a man held his wife at gunpoint. It was not the first time she had stood frozen waiting on the drunken glaze to clear from his eyes, but four shots later it would be the last. The man was my father, the wife, my stepmother Lynn. I lost them both that morning, but as the years have passed I have been overwhelmed with the losses that followed their death.
Lost were my stepmother’s hugs and kisses, her macaroni and tomato dinners, the hours spent playing beauty shop with her, the relationships of siblings separated, having my parents at my high school graduation and other monumental events, my innocence, the ability to live unafraid, trusting, and in peace, the ability to feel normal, the ability to have him see that I have chosen a man who would never hurt me as he did, the chance to show him my new baby girls, and most of all, the ability to let him know that he was forgiven for all the bruising of my body and soul. The list goes on for days but these are the ones that seem the most intrusive in my thoughts.
While I have regained some of the losses, the wounds are deep, cutting into every part of me. With time I imagine they will heal and become scars, a permanent reminder of just how much damage love gone wrong can do.
No comments:
Post a Comment