beyond the sea

It’s been 18 years and I still sometimes think you are out there breathing.

I do not think about it much, but a conversation comes along every now and then that makes me pause. I do not think I have written about you once. If you riffle through the diary of the nine year old child you may find words with question marks.
I wonder what kind of person I would have become with you around. I wonder if I would have been a daddy’s girl. If I would allow myself to be loved like I know I should be loved. Maybe I would have been a lesser person. Sometimes I convince myself I grew up stronger and better because of it.

They say you spoke a lot, some say you were full of shit. She says you were simply magical and inspiring. That you would put baby in the backseat and drive without a destination on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Your hands were strong and tanned and you rolled up your plaid shirts to your elbows.

They say I have your guts. That maybe I’m the one thing you did right. I say it’s a real shame.

I found the many letters from your friends in a box last summer. They wrote to me about you, so that I would know you. Said it was such a good thing to know you. And really, I don’t. I have a puzzle of the various memories you left in those who loved you. I guess that’s all we ever are, really. The love we leave in our people.

And then I find a photograph of you. Who is this man? Is he a part of me? I do not recognize him.