St. Patrick's Day
Dear Dad,
I guess I now have an excuse to really go and get trashed on St. Patrick's Day if I want to.
It used to be because we thought that we were of some Irish descent, so I could legitimately celebrate the day while simultaneously fucking with people's minds.
(Sidebar: I know you don't like cursing, and you thought that it showed a lack of intelligence. Meanwhile, studies have shown that people who curse are actually smarter. You've now probably seen just how much I drop the F-bomb on a regular basis. I mean, I'm a Jersey girl. Mom curses a lot too when we talk to each other. You know we've earned it, and you know why.)
Now, I can use St. Patrick's Day as a preparation for the day after. March 18th. Your birthday. Tomorrow you would have turned 68 years old. On one hand, it feels legitimately old, but it also feels incredibly young.
Like I said in my last letter, this is another stop on the temporal stations of the cross. I cried on the morning of my birthday because I had a realization that I wasn't going to get a phone call from you that day. I took tomorrow off from work because I wasn't sure if I was going to be a mess or not, and I prefer to be a mess alone in my apartment instead of alone in my office at work.
I wish you were here so we could commiserate over how your former employer loves to come in a wreck stuff and wreak havoc on people's lives and mental health. I'm also gaining more of an appreciation of all that you went through over those 30+ years. I'm still trying to figure out what it was all for. I keep feeling like I'm supposed to be doing more to make all of what you endured worth it. I'll never know what you wanted for me. We never had those kinds of conversations. It's been almost a year, and I guess I have to find peace with unanswered questions. It's not easy. But I'm working on it (thanks to therapy and meds).
I've only asked you for a few things so far since you've been gone. I haven't talked to Pop-Pop much...I don't know if you see him or not. If you have, you'll now now that he's been my patron saint of Should Have Known Better. It makes sense though, right? The things I've tried to ask you for have been in the spirit of restoration and reconciliation. Like, you know there was stuff that you royally messed up when you were here, so I've been asking you to try and help things go right now that you're gone. I can't tell if you're helping or trying to help but not succeeding or just not doing anything at all and leaving it up to higher authorities. I try to be selective with my requests and only ask for the really important stuff. I don't even know if you can hear me, but I have to try.
I guess March 18 is always going to be a rough day for me, but maybe it will get easier. Please don't send me any birds as a joke...you know how I feel about birds. And I promise to get my car maintenance done soon. Speaking of the car: if you could stop haunting it, that would be great. It's not that I don't want you around, but having you in the car distracts me when I'm trying to focus on driving. I'm a Jersey girl, remember? I'm not going to slow down.
Happy early Birthday, Dad. I miss you.
Love,
-Amber
I guess I now have an excuse to really go and get trashed on St. Patrick's Day if I want to.
It used to be because we thought that we were of some Irish descent, so I could legitimately celebrate the day while simultaneously fucking with people's minds.
(Sidebar: I know you don't like cursing, and you thought that it showed a lack of intelligence. Meanwhile, studies have shown that people who curse are actually smarter. You've now probably seen just how much I drop the F-bomb on a regular basis. I mean, I'm a Jersey girl. Mom curses a lot too when we talk to each other. You know we've earned it, and you know why.)
Now, I can use St. Patrick's Day as a preparation for the day after. March 18th. Your birthday. Tomorrow you would have turned 68 years old. On one hand, it feels legitimately old, but it also feels incredibly young.
Like I said in my last letter, this is another stop on the temporal stations of the cross. I cried on the morning of my birthday because I had a realization that I wasn't going to get a phone call from you that day. I took tomorrow off from work because I wasn't sure if I was going to be a mess or not, and I prefer to be a mess alone in my apartment instead of alone in my office at work.
I wish you were here so we could commiserate over how your former employer loves to come in a wreck stuff and wreak havoc on people's lives and mental health. I'm also gaining more of an appreciation of all that you went through over those 30+ years. I'm still trying to figure out what it was all for. I keep feeling like I'm supposed to be doing more to make all of what you endured worth it. I'll never know what you wanted for me. We never had those kinds of conversations. It's been almost a year, and I guess I have to find peace with unanswered questions. It's not easy. But I'm working on it (thanks to therapy and meds).
I've only asked you for a few things so far since you've been gone. I haven't talked to Pop-Pop much...I don't know if you see him or not. If you have, you'll now now that he's been my patron saint of Should Have Known Better. It makes sense though, right? The things I've tried to ask you for have been in the spirit of restoration and reconciliation. Like, you know there was stuff that you royally messed up when you were here, so I've been asking you to try and help things go right now that you're gone. I can't tell if you're helping or trying to help but not succeeding or just not doing anything at all and leaving it up to higher authorities. I try to be selective with my requests and only ask for the really important stuff. I don't even know if you can hear me, but I have to try.
I guess March 18 is always going to be a rough day for me, but maybe it will get easier. Please don't send me any birds as a joke...you know how I feel about birds. And I promise to get my car maintenance done soon. Speaking of the car: if you could stop haunting it, that would be great. It's not that I don't want you around, but having you in the car distracts me when I'm trying to focus on driving. I'm a Jersey girl, remember? I'm not going to slow down.
Happy early Birthday, Dad. I miss you.
Love,
-Amber
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