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  • Writer's pictureSteve

That's the kind of stupid thing your father would do.

The Other (Part 1)

It had been bad for a long time. There had been an air of relative calm, however, something of an uncomfortable ceasefire, if you like. I didn't know she had a reason for her ominous bursts of unusual silence, when her dissatisfaction had always been so audibly voluminous.

Now I know it was because, finally, she had given in, Or given up, at least.

As I wander, in a hurry for no-one and nothing, alone as always, the familiar scent of relenting summertime and the onset of autumn swirls gently around me. This always cheered my unsettled soul for some reason, like the aroma of petroleum.

It's okay, I never pretended to understand it either.

She no longer truly cared and so she cooled toward me, using up her natural grown-up warmth on our little, perfect moments of creation, and then another. Someone else that had turned her drizzled, grey sky a cavorting hue of blue, allowing her to see the sun again and feel its once ceaseless glow.

Like it was for us for a time.

Until my ignorant imperfections had caused her to tire of me. An example of a life she no longer wanted or to be reminded of each and every day, screamed at her in the accusing eyes of her own decisions.

She had stopped loving me. It took so long to believe it.

I don't know the exact day it happened but her re-direction was obvious over time. Her patience could not sit still with itself. My final nail was not trying to fix it, determined I had nothing to change, if that would have even worked. Defiant to the last. Alone again.

Perhaps that was the way it was meant to be all along.

For all of the regret she harbours, I hope she thinks fondly of me from time to time, as much and as often as I do of her. I hope she knows how much I loved her, for what she turned me into, from the boy she met, to the man she left behind.


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