Sometimes I like to go and look out from the rooftop of the apartment building that is the setting of my life.
It has been the setting of all my life.
I grew up with my mom and dad and sister in a small, two-bedroom on the 12th floor. I'm by myself now but I've managed to hang on to it.
Although certainly, not all the memories are good—the cozy, familiar living room and hallway; the aged and simple but somewhat bright and cheery kitchen; and the inner sanctum of the bedroom I shared with my sister as a child—are a comfort.
A comfort in what has at times seemed like a very cold, lonely world.
Dad was a gentle soul really—but fragile, scared. He destroyed himself with booze and pills and was gone by 35.
Mom, who was angry and frustrated before, became an outraged, bitter lunatic. One day she disappeared and I never saw her again. Even the police couldn't find any trace of her. I wonder and worry about what happened to her. Will I ever know?
My sister, who was older than I was, had already taken off the first chance she had. She got married and lives a long way off. We always cared about each other but were never close like some sisters, I guess. We talk once in a while. She has no intention of ever coming back. I don't tell her, but I wish she would come to visit me. After we talk, I think about the sound of her voice and I cry a little.
There is no other family. I have a few friends on the block whom I've known for some years now. They're good people and I'm very grateful for them—more grateful than I can say.
It's funny; I know that it was my Dad who kind of wrecked everything for us—my sister definitely thought so—and there's truth to that, I suppose. Even though, I have come to think that letting go of anger and condemnation, over anything—although so hard sometimes, too much to ask sometimes—is worth its weight in gold. But it's my Dad—my Dad—I miss most of all.
I came to find—that "center" of myself—that is what's left to turn to when there is seemingly nothing else. I guess we all do that—or don't. I wonder if this being, this silent observer—is forever. Does It already know how this little corner of eternity I live in is going to play out?
Or is it finding out like me?
Is It finding out—me?
Written Content G.A.M. cc
In Moonlight Oleg Mischenko
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Shots Of Silver™ 2012