Those We Never Knew

Daddy never speaks kindly of her. He tells me she was a druggie, a loser. A poor excuse for a human being.

As daddy tells it, she used to leave me alone in my crib for hours - soiled, unfed, sobbing until I puked.

He paid her to disappear. I did not know that until I was now years old and the tears are falling on my mound of belongings faster than I can tranfer them to the faded black valise.

As I pack, I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror and wonder if it is her eyes I see staring back at me. I wonder if when thinks of me, and cries, if her face transforms into the same mask of hopeless desperation I am wearing now.

But, wait...does she? Does she think of me? And cry? If she were here now, would she turn her back on my sobs? Would she feed my emotional hunger and cradle the wounded child living inside me?

The pile of money I had intended to use for bus fare suddenly feels heavy in my pocket and I wonder how many bus rides mama could’ve bought, with the money he gave her to walk out on me.

I wonder what price she deemed acceptable to sever the however flimsy maternal bond she had forged in our short time together.

I wonder if she is worth the weight of this change in my pocket...the weight of change, period.

My eyes dart between my reflection and the many framed pictures of my dad and me, scattered about my bedroom.

I begin to think that those who left us, those we never knew, are better left as strangers. In our fantasies, at least they can be kind, remorseful, repentant -

their love, unconditional.

If we hop a bus and chase them into our reality, the price tag could be much more than we can afford.