Waves

K.E.C.

When I went to clean out his office, I wasn't really sure if I was ready. I hadn't talked to him in years. I could only imagine what his co-workers would think of me or what he had told them. I arrived tattooed, pierced, and sad. I was there for my mom, at least that is what I kept repeating. I think I knew then, and I definitely know now, I needed to do it for me. He had put up quotes and hopeful messages everywhere. I even found something he had written, placed upon his computer; a quote from Jimi Hendrix. I laughed a bit inside. I was noticing so many signs of a lighter man.

He had this before I came into the picture. I grew up seeing it and reading it. Eventually I ignored it. It was just in the background. I felt no particular way about it. When I asked my mom if I could keep it I was worried she would say no and I'd have to smile and say, "That's okay." Inside the pain would have stabbed me. It's mine now. I may not believe in a God or man presiding over me, I do believe in something bigger. I hope that my dad has a deeper understanding of pain and love. I wish for him to finally see things clearly and to grasp his impactful life; both positive and negative.

Mr. Conley was my dad and my principal during my early years of schooling. These last few days I've been reading what people are writing about him and to him. While in his office, we kept finding drawers and drawers of notes and cards from kids and teachers. He had kept everything he had received over his years of giving his whole soul to his job. Maybe he felt more love in his office, I can't be sure. I couldn't understand why he had gone into work with children if he hated us so much. That's what I had spent years thinking. I think he loved us as best as he could. He did fucked up shit, no doubt. He also had these moments of being the best dad ever. We were so lucky to have seen those pieces of him. I know how hard it is to heal and grow. I understand how scary it can be to work through the pain caused by the adults in your life. Topping on the expectations placed on young boys who are to become men, I guess that's something else I understand. My father was in pain. He was a little boy who had been told he wasn't good enough. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally abused. Passing from home to home while protecting his younger siblings. He chose a career that he knew wouldn't bring in the highest income. He worked to pay his way through college. That is where he met my mother. She came from wealth and prestige, yet they fell in love. He sought acceptance from those that looked down on him. She gave him hers right away. He worked his ass off constantly. It didn't help with his health.

So many people loved my dad. I found one of my dad's many notebooks. He had written "I don't want to be forgotten." It was one of the last things he had written, and he won't be forgotten. We can't change what has come to pass, we can only do better.

-Brooko

 **EDIT** I feel this is important to keep up because it shows how close I came to falling for his bullshit again; even in death. This was before I found his little black book and photos of women he had kept hidden under his desk.

Holes In Time

The deepest misunderstanding of time is that we have plenty of it. We don't.

I've watched a man run into fire and burn. I've lost an old friend in a head on collision, and too many people to drugs, alcohol, and depression. I found our family dog hanging from the fence in our backyard. I have had a gun pointed to my head and thought "This is it; my end is now."

Nobody wants to believe that hate, resentment, and disappointment will cloud their mind after learning that a parent is dead. Either we wish to feel nothing, or we wish for the sadness to be overshadowed by the comfort of good memories and the support of those that share your blood. I have very few good memories and I find myself once again sitting alone. I am but a girl with her cat. I'm in a storm of what I can only assume is a form of insanity. I guess I should laugh, maybe some of my exes were right: I am crazy.

Only someone crazy could love the people I have loved. My "father" drove me mad with his give-and-take love. The normalization of daily activities and interactions prepared me for every moment in my nearly 32 years on this planet. He helped mold me during my most early, informative existence. He made me angry. He devoured my self-esteem. He treated my mother like property, so I became property to another and another and another. My soul was yelling and raging. So how did I end up here?

How did I find myself to be sad about the death of a man who made my journey extra treacherous, harmful, and scary? Indeed, I am sad about the death of a man I decided to no longer call "dad", only a few short weeks ago. My therapist told me that seeing my family again should happen when I was ready, and on my own terms.

Life is what happens while you're busy making plans. I thought I had time to reassemble my pieces and then speak my truth. Maybe a small part of me thought he would fucking apologize. That's never going to happen now, and probably never was. The word probably will haunt me. It shall extravagantly stride whilst holding hands with all of the maybes from my daydreams of a better life.

"If only, if only," the woodpecker sighs, "The bark on the tree was just a little bit softer." While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, He cries to the moon, "If only, if only."

Today,

    my dad died.

November 9th, 2021