I want so much to write an epic tale of my life’s journey, but I can’t. My life isn’t epic, nothing glamorous has happened in my life. It’s quite ordinary when all is said and done. I want to write a story for me. My search. My journey of who I am and where I came from, but again I can’t. Looking back through the years, I think of all of the events and occasions I have taken for granted. Things that I haven’t cherished and taken advantage of. How I wish I could get those times back. How I wish you were still here. I want to understand. I want to know your story so I can know my own. But I can’t and won’t. My tale will now be one of fiction. Of wishes and dreams, of should haves and could haves. I don’t know where to start. Sadness fills me as I try to write this. I feel as though as I am a void in space and time. Where to start…
I was born in a small town in northern Canada to a teenagers. My mother, white, was just 17. My father, dark brown was 19. Just children themselves when you look back to the pictures of them. My mother on the track team, still looked like a baby, short and thin with waist length hair. My father on the cross country team, look like a geek, his sparse foo-man-chu moustache complemented his horned-rimmed glasses.
Funny how things change. I am sitting here, listening to sad music tapes made after a boy broke my heart, and I’m thinking how I wish I could go back and make things different.
Not all people want to go make and make a mends with things, but honestly, if I had the chance to go back I would do things differently.
Let’s start in high-school. Not that I was a bad kid, I just missed curfew by 10-15 minutes, and was usually fall down drunk by the time I got home. No, that’s not what I would change. I always took a cab home (I lived in a small town). My mom was understanding to a point. She didn’t understand why people drink. She’s never been a drinker, she still and always has mixed her wine with orange juice and would still contend how she could feel the alcohol “coursing” through her veins. My dad’s another story. He had it rough when he was a kid, and when he would tell me stories of this childhood it made me cry to think of the things he had to endure as a child. I don’t doubt his stories because I’ve been to my grandparent’s home. It a small rectangular house where half is the kitchen/living/dining room and the other half is 4 bedrooms and a bathroom. Not bad you’re thinking, but my dad’s family totaled nine kids