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Saturday, November 6, 2010

My father didn't remember

My father didn't remember firing the maid.
He was suprised when he got home after being in the hospital and found the maid was gone.

Over the years there were other things he didn't remember either. Like my 21st.
He did remember some other birthdays - like my 6th - okay - he was still at home then, so he probably had my mother to remind him. I loved that card. It was a big red apple with a bright green worm and it said To the apple of my eye. Which I had been until my mother cut my long, knotted hair and I went all rebellious at 9 and nicked some useless stuff from that damn stationary shop.

He forgot to give my eldest sister, Janine, R10 when she completed the Rubik's cube, like he said he would. Of course he didn't believe she would, but she did. 
He forgot that by the time my parents got to the divorce lawyers, my mother had already given him plenty chances to improve on his family man status, but he only ever remembered that very last chance in the lawyers office when she said no more chances.

Perhaps I should've been more forgetful. It might have been easier for both of us had I forgotten when he didn't phone for my 21st. Or my 18th. Or my 16th. Many birthdays. I should have forgotten when he didn't keep his word, I should have forgotten when he became unreasonably irritated, I should have forgotten when he wasn't there for me.

4 comments:

  1. Beautifully written, Nicola, and so full of emotion. You've made me well up!

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  2. It doesn't sound to me like these are things you need to forget-- maybe work not to remember instead, I don't know...some fathers, like mine, and yours, from the sounds of things, are careless about the things and people they should care better for. Forgiving is, I think, the easy part; forgetting is harder. Horrible things to write about, beautifully written.

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  3. Thank you. Yes, I have found that being able to understand makes forgiving easier, but forgetting is a bit harder - because part of who he was has moulded me to part of who I am; the parts he forgot and the ones I remembered.

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