The shadows start before noon, and the chill wind creeps around the corners and through every crack and strain in the fenstrations. I huddle in the products of my craft, hands pulling the fabrics tight about me as I struggle to find warm.
This year you left me forever, I will never hear your voice again, never feel your hand rub my shoulder, never see your smile again. I miss you so much, even though our lives took different paths, through distant lands. You were the adhesive that kept the family from disintegration, and now there is no family.
The child is gone. My work is finished there. I will never again see her, it seems, never see the results of my broken and inadequate attempt at parentage. There is no forgiveness, there is no love, there is but lonliness and emptiness. But then, I've always been broken, inadequate, empty. Why would this day become any different? What is the meaning when all you strive for turns to dust? The preachers lied. The television lied. The teachers lied. This is not Leave it to Beaver. There is no Ward Cleaver. All is dust, and ash. Tasteless remnants of a promised feast that never materialized.
To what end the cycle of sticking and reading, recording and gulping yet another pill, yet another drug, yet another attempt to change what is broken and inadequate? Why the focus on all the things that only continue to fail?
When can this end, please?