"Your Daughter"
I saw your daughter yesterday
She's taller than before
She's matured much on the outside
And on the inside even more
Would you even recognize her
If she came to you today?
Why did you have to hurt her
And push her so far away?
She told me that she misses you,
Asked me to tell you so
She longs to have her father back
I thought you'd like to know
She can't forget what happened
And probably never will
But she doesn't really hate you
In fact, she loves you still
So if you love your little girl
Please tell her how you feel
Because I miss you, Daddy,
But this pain inside is real
Not a word today. Not unless you count "Where's the salt?" or "Who's turn is it to do the dishes?" Sometimes its harder when he doesn't say anything at all. Sometimes the empty, hollow silence is worse than all the yelling and door slamming combined. Sitting at the dinner table has turned into a torturous event - nobody talks, and when they do its just about stupid, meaningless variations of the same old daily routines. Conversation has become so strained, so uncomfortable, that everyone seems to have reached an unspoken agreement: "I won't say anything if you don't. If we say nothing, then there is nothing to argue about." There are some nights, like tonight, when all I want to do is stand on my chair and scream at all of them. Who are these people? How can five individuals really be so linked together by blood and yet so utterly sepparated by life in general? Can we really even call ourselves a family anymore if eating dinner together has become so painful?
We always sit in the same seats. No one ever said, "This is where you shall sit for the rest of your life," but the idea is understood. If Natalie were to suddenly take her plate to the table and sit where Max has been sitting for the past nine years, such a variation from the normal and accepted seating arrangement would undoutably cause a minor war. Another stupid, entirely pointless arguement. Natalie would never willingly cause an arguement, though, so every night she takes her seat directly accross from me. She never says much at dinner, but I know what she's thinking. She hates it just as much as I do, and with every bite of the same tired meals she is counting the minutes, planning her escape. Tonight she hurried through some indescribable rice dish and rushed off half way through the meal to watch American Idol at her other home. She's lucky, her two best friends live right behind us. Half the time she doesn't even come home for dinner anymore. People ask if I have brothers or sisters. I normally tell them that I have one brother, and then depending on what day of the week it is I either have 3 sisters or none at all.
Max always seems unaware of the tension. Either that or he just doesn't understand it. He sits between mom and dad at the end of the kitchen table, pushing the rice around on his plate so it looks like he ate more than he actually did and gagging his way through the dreaded vegtables he hates so much. If we had a dog, Max would be the one slipping him the scraps under the table. My mother scolds him repeatedly, but do nine year old boys ever really listen? Of course not. Mom sometimes attempts to initiate a decent conversation at the dinner table, asking us what we did in school or whether or not everyone has plans for the weekend. She didn't even bother today. I feel bad, it seems like she takes the weight of the entire family on her shoulders half the time. Sooner or later she's going to fall apart. I used to be able to talk to her about anything that bothered me. She was my best friend, my role model, my safe harbor from the storm. I don't know what happened. One day I simply realized that my mother could barely keep herself together, anymore. She certainly couldn't handle keeping me together as well. We still talk, but we aren't as close anymore. I miss our conversations. I miss our evening get-away trips where we used to disappear for a few hours and go drink hot chocolate somewhere or walk down by the river. I look at the tired, broken woman sitting next to Natalie and Max at the dinner table and I can't help but wonder, "What happened to her? What happened to all of us?"
I sit in the corner, by the windows that look out over the deck and the driveway. Half the time the seat next to me is empty... the other half it might as well be. Meetings sometimes fall durring the dinner hour, and my father is very involved in business, civil, and social gatherings. We lose track of which nights are yoga with Kurt and Aunt Kari until 7, which nights are commitee meetings, and which nights are Rotary events. Some nights as we sit there not talking, I think about how ironic it is that we even bother eating at the same time in the same room. Whats the point?
I don't understand my father. He certainly doesn't understand any of us. I wish he would just ask me how my day went. I wish he would smile at me every now and then. I wish he could actually remember which one of his children usually eats all the mushrooms out of the salads, which one always cuts the corn off the corncob before eating it with a fork, and which one absolutely HATES onions in any way, shape or form. I wish he cared enough to remember my friend's names, especially the ones I've known for several years. I wish I could remember more of the good times. I wish I could forget everything else. I wish... never mind. This isn't a fairy tale, there are no fairy godmothers or magic lamps. This is real life. This is my life. Wishing isn't going to get me anywhere.
This has really turned into my place for venting. I don't know, maybe thats a good thing. I never used to talk about my dad, but it feels so good to be able to write everything down and just let it go.
She's taller than before
She's matured much on the outside
And on the inside even more
Would you even recognize her
If she came to you today?
Why did you have to hurt her
And push her so far away?
She told me that she misses you,
Asked me to tell you so
She longs to have her father back
I thought you'd like to know
She can't forget what happened
And probably never will
But she doesn't really hate you
In fact, she loves you still
So if you love your little girl
Please tell her how you feel
Because I miss you, Daddy,
But this pain inside is real
Not a word today. Not unless you count "Where's the salt?" or "Who's turn is it to do the dishes?" Sometimes its harder when he doesn't say anything at all. Sometimes the empty, hollow silence is worse than all the yelling and door slamming combined. Sitting at the dinner table has turned into a torturous event - nobody talks, and when they do its just about stupid, meaningless variations of the same old daily routines. Conversation has become so strained, so uncomfortable, that everyone seems to have reached an unspoken agreement: "I won't say anything if you don't. If we say nothing, then there is nothing to argue about." There are some nights, like tonight, when all I want to do is stand on my chair and scream at all of them. Who are these people? How can five individuals really be so linked together by blood and yet so utterly sepparated by life in general? Can we really even call ourselves a family anymore if eating dinner together has become so painful?
We always sit in the same seats. No one ever said, "This is where you shall sit for the rest of your life," but the idea is understood. If Natalie were to suddenly take her plate to the table and sit where Max has been sitting for the past nine years, such a variation from the normal and accepted seating arrangement would undoutably cause a minor war. Another stupid, entirely pointless arguement. Natalie would never willingly cause an arguement, though, so every night she takes her seat directly accross from me. She never says much at dinner, but I know what she's thinking. She hates it just as much as I do, and with every bite of the same tired meals she is counting the minutes, planning her escape. Tonight she hurried through some indescribable rice dish and rushed off half way through the meal to watch American Idol at her other home. She's lucky, her two best friends live right behind us. Half the time she doesn't even come home for dinner anymore. People ask if I have brothers or sisters. I normally tell them that I have one brother, and then depending on what day of the week it is I either have 3 sisters or none at all.
Max always seems unaware of the tension. Either that or he just doesn't understand it. He sits between mom and dad at the end of the kitchen table, pushing the rice around on his plate so it looks like he ate more than he actually did and gagging his way through the dreaded vegtables he hates so much. If we had a dog, Max would be the one slipping him the scraps under the table. My mother scolds him repeatedly, but do nine year old boys ever really listen? Of course not. Mom sometimes attempts to initiate a decent conversation at the dinner table, asking us what we did in school or whether or not everyone has plans for the weekend. She didn't even bother today. I feel bad, it seems like she takes the weight of the entire family on her shoulders half the time. Sooner or later she's going to fall apart. I used to be able to talk to her about anything that bothered me. She was my best friend, my role model, my safe harbor from the storm. I don't know what happened. One day I simply realized that my mother could barely keep herself together, anymore. She certainly couldn't handle keeping me together as well. We still talk, but we aren't as close anymore. I miss our conversations. I miss our evening get-away trips where we used to disappear for a few hours and go drink hot chocolate somewhere or walk down by the river. I look at the tired, broken woman sitting next to Natalie and Max at the dinner table and I can't help but wonder, "What happened to her? What happened to all of us?"
I sit in the corner, by the windows that look out over the deck and the driveway. Half the time the seat next to me is empty... the other half it might as well be. Meetings sometimes fall durring the dinner hour, and my father is very involved in business, civil, and social gatherings. We lose track of which nights are yoga with Kurt and Aunt Kari until 7, which nights are commitee meetings, and which nights are Rotary events. Some nights as we sit there not talking, I think about how ironic it is that we even bother eating at the same time in the same room. Whats the point?
I don't understand my father. He certainly doesn't understand any of us. I wish he would just ask me how my day went. I wish he would smile at me every now and then. I wish he could actually remember which one of his children usually eats all the mushrooms out of the salads, which one always cuts the corn off the corncob before eating it with a fork, and which one absolutely HATES onions in any way, shape or form. I wish he cared enough to remember my friend's names, especially the ones I've known for several years. I wish I could remember more of the good times. I wish I could forget everything else. I wish... never mind. This isn't a fairy tale, there are no fairy godmothers or magic lamps. This is real life. This is my life. Wishing isn't going to get me anywhere.
This has really turned into my place for venting. I don't know, maybe thats a good thing. I never used to talk about my dad, but it feels so good to be able to write everything down and just let it go.