When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure

I started school. Which leads to questions. Questions about school work, questions about life, mostly questions from my peers about myself. The worst one?

"What does your father do?"

I always say teacher. My step-father, Curtis, is a teacher. He is also the man that saved my family. He rescued my mom, he made her happy, and together they gave me the most amazingly fantastic little brothers. So my dad, he's a teacher.

But naturally being in law school every once in awhile I slip

"Oh my dad was a cop"

From those listening it's a quizzical look, "soo he was a cop then a teacher?"

"No, my real dad...uh...erm...nevermind."

Real dad. Sperm Donor. Step Dad. Best Friend....what the hell do I call them.

Well, the man who, with my mom, contributed to (what I personally think) is the faboosh genetic makeup known as muah. Well that guy is long gone. That guy is superficial and doesn't really care. That guy hasn't been around for ages. He's been married once since my mom and that dissolved in a shit storm of fury. The lady was nuts. Now again he is engaged. I don't know who she is and frankly I don't care. At least this time he told me he bought the ring before he proposed. He claims the wedding won't be for ages. We shall see.

Anyway I'm a big fan of PostSecret. I haven't visited it in forever but last weekend, this post card appeared:



Boy did that speak to what I was feeling. Sometimes I wish I had a better reason. Something better than, "he just didn't care."

I'll just keep telling myself that it's his loss....