On Long Island in the wintertime..
It's been a long time since I've felt this weird. It feels like my whole life here was a dream, and now I'm stuck in a review of the dream. Images and memories flood my mind, yet it doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem like any of it actually happened. There are wintertrees, and biting wind, and it's cold. So fucking cold. And grey.. like a dream. A cold, winter dream of a cold, winter life. With relatives all over the damn place. They've been sweet enough.. but I'm resentful and I'm not even sure why anymore.
Seeing chAka is good. Spending time with my mom is good. Seeing my father was just plain strange. The house still holds so much of my mother. Her style, her decorations, her desperate attempts to make it into a home. Yet interspersed are Collette's things, her furniture mixed among ours, her pictures hung among ours. Her children live there now. And I'm sure none of them give any thought as to the lives that existed there before them. Which is as it should be. The past is gone, what's done is done. Let my father derive some comfort in his old age. Maybe he's finally learned enough to open up to this third attempt at a family.
My father is old. His walk is slower. He struggles to stand. His mannerisms are forced. He doesn't know how to act around me. He doesn't know what to say to me. He doesn't know me. I feel bad, watching him age. We don't know each other. We never will know each other. I'm a stranger to him. A stranger he buys iPods for.
My birthday is the day after tomorrow. I'll be 21. I'm an adult, and yet I still can't decide if I feel seven or eighty seven.