The frown was a reflection of this disappointing thought:
Why did I think of my father instead of Jeff?
Why do I always feel spirit-driven advice is messaged from my father?
Why do I never hear from Jeff?
Why do I never dream of Jeff? Well, not never. Maybe twice in 14 years.
And here’s what wisped from through my canyoned heart straight into my creviced mind: Because you wouldn’t listen, anyway. (ouch.)
Because I won’t listen?
Because I don’t listen, on purpose?
I know I haven’t listened to those pre-death platitudes he liked to offer. The ones I dismissed as stupid answers to my standard bitching response to his multitudes of stupid anti-helping-his-situation behaviors.
Like not getting up every hour to help his circulation. Like chewing tobacco. Like drinking liters of Mt Dew. Like not watching his diet, his salt intake.
Like dismissing the real message in my accusation, “You must not love me very much if you don’t want to stick around.”
At first it would always be, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then, it became annexed with, “but, everybody’s gotta to die sometime.”
Oh, the ire that inspired. “You don’t have to help it along!” I’d argue. “Why don’t you care that you’re going to leave me alone and miserable.?”
“Aw,” he’d push away my fears with air-palms. “We’re not Canadian geese, ya know. You’re not gonna be lonely.”
To which, I’d either tearfully reply, “I am.”
Or angrily assert, “I’m a #&0#@$# swan!”
“You’ll meet someone,” he’d confidently continue. Later, turning to, “You’ll meet someone better than me.” Which is actually quite hurtful, now. Either my tough-love attempts were interpreted as complaints of worthlessness or he was being his own worse enemy by putting himself down.
I haven’t once listened to the still living well-speakers offering echoes of the positives above for years. You know: Jeff would want, Jeff would be, Jeff wouldn’t be, and even once a more direct approach of, Jeff thinks it’s time to ….
I’m not entirely un-voluntarily stuck. I still don’t want to hear Jeff’s hopes that I’ll move on and be happy. What I want to hear is, “You’re just having a bad dream. None of this is true or real.”
Maybe he’d tried at first. I wouldn’t know. Lack of listening, again. Maybe he skipped right over that. Maybe he was wise enough to send my dad to get my attention.
That’s what I’d like to think. Otherwise, it would merely be uncoupled concurrence. Reading “A Box of Butterflies,” contemplating signs of spiritual arrival and a well-timed burnt-orange butterfly.
Except, I don’t subscribe coincidences. I believe in fate and His Holy Plan conveyed concisely within Jeremiah. 29:11.
The chaining, a reactionary result of missing documents.
So, no. I absolutely did not find what I was looking for.
But, I reluctantly confess; I might have found something more important.
Poem for the Week;
knabble 