The house is dark, it will be quiet until I start writing, because every time my fingers kit the keys – something happens. Someone needs me. Something needs me. Someones hungry. Someones tired. Someone cant find the someone they want to bug…and suddenly…the house is no longer quiet. But loud. So very loud.
I complain – more often than I should, about the noise. If I stop and remember how silent it was one day, and how much I wished I could, just once more, hear the real voices (not just the ones in my head)…I don’t think I would complain so much.
Someone I know, is fond of asking me the same question, over and over. He is the kind of person, whos noise is not welcome, but I don’t shut out, for reasons unknown. He starts out simple, and launches off – do I know how he feels? Do I remember back when? Can I sympathize with him, for just one moment please? And sometimes I do. Sometimes I give him the sympathy he craves, and sometimes I tell him that no, I don’t understand because what he has gone through is something I never have.
I havent ever said, what I wanted to. Because once I start, I don’t think I will stop, and it will go on deaf ears. I have said parts, bits and pieces, things that go in and out one ear faster than anything…but what I really want to say, never makes it past my angry mind.
I want to strangle people sometimes. People who take every advantage of not only ever day, but every person in their lives. Who think that instead of loving their family – they are owed what they have PLUS some. I want to slap people who think its ok to abuse those they are suppose to love. And divorce…
I don’t claim to be a marriage expert, I don’t know much about it…but I would give anything to have it again.
When someone tells me that I should understand divorce, and be able to sympathize with them because they heard a song on the radio that reminded them of “When they were married” and wonder if I can relate…I say no. I cannot. I cannot fathom – my wife, living down the street. In another town. I cant grasp it. The closest I can get to “her” now is at a cemetery. I cant say Im sorry. I cant make things right. I cant fix things.
When someone tells me that they went the funeral of their friends daughter – and it brought up memories of his own daughter – who – is off in college, ignoring him because of things he has done in the past – and then asks me if I understand the pain. I say no. I don’t. I do NOT know what it is like to have a daughter, going to college. And what I wouldnt give to have that.
What they don’t understand, what he doesnt understand is there is a second chance. That he should take full advantage of it…that he should run to the place, and tell them how sorry he is…and do anything and everything possible to fix it…while he can. Because there is time. There is another chance.
It isn’t the same.
Life and death are not the same.
My daughter isn’t alive. She doesn’t live down the road with my wife, who left me because of my mistakes.
I really doubt he would understand the pain in that sentence. The years it has taken me to come to the point of even writing that. Saying that she didn’t “Leave” me because of my “Mistakes” because I could go so far on that.
What I wish I could tell him, is what I wish someone would have told me…
That mistakes are just mistakes. That they can be overcome. That it isn’t too late, if the sun still rises, and your loved one is still within arms reach – it isn’t too late.
What I wish I could tell him, is that the reason I don’t understand what he is going through, is because I would give anything to have the second chance he has.
I wish sometimes not only that I could tell him this, but that somehow…I could make him understand…before it really is, too late.