Monthly Archives: November 2011
My Thanksgiving? The first in a long time with my son … with Oliver. I know that he does not think of himself as my son. But I think of him as nothing else.
My mother and father came. All the way from Chicago. I’m not sure which was more challenging, Oliver or my elderly parents. They wanted to help ease the situation but only exacerbated it.
Dad tried to engage him in conversation, but there was no middle ground. My mother spent her time complimenting Oliver. And Oliver? He kept to a grin, a nod, and short responses.
During the meal, Oliver sat quietly across from me. He was so uncomfortable eating among these strangers. I felt sorry but could do nothing. We made it through dinner. Oliver tried to help with the dishes but I told him he could leave if he wanted.
Oliver’s eyes held such relief at the suggestion. But he said he didn’t want to be rude. With a squeeze of his arm, I assured him that I could take care of everything. Of course, Dad offered to drive him and I saw the absolute terror in Oliver’s eyes at that proposition.
“That’s alright, Dad. It’s dark outside and you know how you are not allowed to drive after dark.”
For just a moment, I felt like Oliver and I were mother and son once more. He looked at me and mouthed “Thank you,” so that Dad couldn’t see.
Yes, when he left, I was relieved. I also felt deep regret and guilt. But, I believe my relief was more for Oliver than myself. He doesn’t know who he is. And forcing him into some false persona must be painful.
I will give him a few days before calling. I know he needs space. And time. Time to heal the rift this bizarre situation has ripped in his soul. It’s just that the mother in me wants to kiss him on the forehead and make it all better.
That is something I miss, fixing everything with a kiss. That hasn’t been so since the angelic music in the desert took away my little boy.
Thanksgiving? I have been stuck in this house for many months. Stuck is not the proper word. Self-imposed. That is better. I struggle with what has happened. Thanksgiving as a concept is not foreign. It is familiar. That is what strikes me as wrong. Why?
Melanie wants me to come over to her house for this holiday. I believe her parents will be there. Her parents? My Grandparent if I am her son. I don’t feel like a son but an outsider.
I promised I would go. The cab will pick me up at 10 am tomorrow.
What do you bring to something like this? That is where the familiarity with this ends. Do I buy a pie? Wine? Or do I just show up, the illegitimate son?
Not fair. She has never treated me like that. I have just put myself in that position.
I am no writer. Not like Moses. He wrote. And wrote and wrote. Me? I still question why I can write. No memory of what has happened to me but I can remember how to write.
Words are not easy. But I have this need to get down on paper thoughts. Abstract ideas. So, I have introduced my notebook. Bought it along with pencils, crayons and colored pencils. No real reason just had an urge and got the supplies.
Don’t know if this will help. Drawing in a journal. Can’t hurt, can it? I just need to understand what’s real, what’s fiction and who is telling the truth.