Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Someone You Don’t Talk To As Much As You’d Like

I sucked for a while and let my 30 Days of Letters fall by the wayside. I’m going to try and start writing them again.

Dear Dad,

I wish we talked more, and not just in the literal sense. Because while it’s true that we don’t talk very often, and when I live away from home we go months without even a phone call to say hi, when we do talk I feel like we’re still not really talking. It’s superficial conversation about nothing at all. Your day at work, the new dress I got, what you’ve done in the garden. And even then, I wonder if you really hear me. I wonder if you know who I am. In fact, I wonder if I know who you are. I know things about you because I’ve observed them or because mom has told me, but very few things about you are things I know because you’ve told me.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of what having an relationship with you that had some sort of bonding and substance to it would be like. You took me out for drinks when I turned 21 and I don’t know if I can remember a time, before or since, when we did anything that was just the two of us. And you did let me in that night; you confirmed what mom had already told me she’d suspected. You had a mistress. And even if you didn’t tell me in as many words, the anonymous, female “friend” that I would “like so much” that kept finding her way into our conversation said what there was no need for you to say at that moment.

And maybe, on top of all the differences between the two of us, I was afraid to really talk to you after that. We all know that you have no filter, and maybe I feared that you’d tell me something that I’d wish I’d never known so I found it easier to go back to what we’d always done. Back to beating around the bush, back to surface conversation about superficial things. But the truth is, I want you to know who I truly am. And I want to know who you truly are, too.

I also want you to know that you’re probably completely unaware of the fact that the random calls you make to me? The ones that come about once every 2 or 3 months? The ones where you just say, “Hi, Moo*!” and then run off to go do something else? Those calls make my entire day.

I love you. Let’s talk more.

*That’s my dad’s childhood nickname for me. I don’t think he’s called me Britni in 15 or more years. It’s always Moo, Moo Mah, or Moomasita (pronounced moo-mah-see-tah).

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