July 13, 2005

7-13-05
Dear Mom,

I’m sorry for what I’m about to say, and that’s that I’m scared I don’t know how much I really love you right now. Just as you may find it difficult to love me as much as you used to (don’t deny it), I no longer want you to hug me or give me a goodnight kiss or even ask what I’m doing. But deep down I do. I feel like you’re happy with me being alone all the time. I don’t know if you even want to touch me any more because I can’t even think of the last time you walked behind my back and grazed my shoulderblades with your motherly hand, just to silently say “I love you, son.”

But I don’t know anymore. Suddenly the world seems so different now that I’m outside of the Christian bubble, to which I’m distantly looking into, seeing you, waving a welcoming hand. It can’t be that great, mom. To know little and believe that that’s a happy life. If you stepped outside of your comfort-zone of ignorance, I know you’d see it. Maybe. But then again I know it all comes back to how you grew up. Catholic school well-into your teenage years, the youngest child of six, little college. Mom, did you ever see college from my perspective? You dated a wrestler (and possibly others) while you were there; grades weren’t your highest priority; and you were there on a gymnastics scholarship. What was driving your desire to suck out the marrow of life? Purity. Chastity. Order. Obedience. The pillars of my mother.

Academics. Future. Perfection. Knowledge. Do you see we even have different goals?


But maybe that all doesn’t matter. It’s like when a dog looks in the mirror and doesn’t even realize that it’s looking at itself. You’re looking at me and not realizing that I’m OF you. I’m your blood, your skin, your teeth. My mind created by your DNA and nurtured from birth by your ideals and soft hands.

If you love me, I wish you would show it. You may not know what your hug has done to me, but if you were at all observant, you’d see the salted streaks on my pillow that my eyes created, or realize that I’m not really reading that book, but waiting for you to talk to me. To at least let me know that you believe my existence is worthy. I want to be a son to you. Be my mom.

Love,
Zak

------
7-13-05
Dear Dad,

Tonight you came home from a long business trip. I don’t know how long you were gone; I’ve stopped trying to keep track of it. The only times I’ve wanted to know when you were coming home was to know how much more time I had to spend upstairs or even be at the house. I hate rumors, I really do. But I don’t like hearing about your indulgence into alcohol and your possible misuse of those Sudafed pain pills. My friends tried to get me to take double the recommended amount to make me feel ‘really good’ but I denied them; not because I didn’t want to experience that high, but because you could possibly be abusing what kids my age do for fun.

Tonight I purposely grabbed my laundry basket to take upstairs, so that if I saw you, I wouldn’t have to give you the obligatory hug. Not because I hate you—that isn’t the petty reason. But because sometimes I don’t like it when you touch me because it’s so fake. Your embrace reminds me why it’s better that we keep a relationship on the phone instead of in person. We’re a pair who can maintain a healthy relationship when it’s sporadic and distant conversation. In my opinion.

I took that laundry basket up and you were already in your room, so I had used my prop for no reason; so I did my laundry. With the spare change I found in my pockets, I gathered my courage and walked to just outside your bedroom door, where you were talking to mom. I always half expect you two to be saying something about me, but I really should be less vain. Mom just mentioned her back pain and you asked if we had any wine in the house. Just as mom told you to look for the wine, I started furiously rubbing my two pennies together, sweating a little in my hands. When I hear your footsteps on the wood, I’ll start walking your way to pretend like I’d been on my way to your room anyway. I even had something prepared to say to you, so that I didn’t rudely say nothing. “I heard you dr-drop coins; you know I can hear that a mile away.” I expected that smile on your face because I not only made you laugh but because I talked to you. I’m trying, but you don’t realize the obstacle you’ve become for me.

Your hug tonight was near perfect. Maybe it had been that I had just been wanting a hug, despite that I’ve always hated yours. Lingering, too affectionate for the moment, “I own half your blood” kind of hug. But tonight’s was different. It could’ve been that I had my mind set on gathering up your loose change—hopefully not seeming like I was a scrounger for money, but that it had been what I always used to do when you came home from work. I don’t even know if you considered the moment special, but I sure hadn’t planned on it being that great.

Things will get better. We have so many mountains and valleys in our relationship; we’re climbing.

Love,
Zak