Dallas, early 1980s. 

The biggest thing from a texture standpoint was the carpet.  It was shag, and so the texture stuck to your face when you laid down on it with no blanket.  In the previous decade people wanted this in their homes.  Nobody has this anymore in their homes.  It was, to say the least, the definition of an era.  These are things you look back on as a symbol of the time.

In reality, with any of them up until now, she would have went anywhere on any adventure.  The earliest days of course started with him, in the living room, on the oversized leather chair.  He called each one of his feet by names.  “Homer” (the left) and “Jethro” (the right).  They would make up stories about each foot together.  Laughter was sure to entail.  The plotline of the stories have been lost to history.

But what wasn’t lost was the feeling of sharing.  At least for a bit.  Later on, as in a couple of years, there would be a moment or two at the Burger King parking lot where an exchange would need to be made and he wouldn’t be there to conduct such.  And she would have to go back home without him.  But tonight sharing was made.  Even if it meant sleeping for hours in the middle of the day.  And not understanding that this was unnatural because it was with him and only he mattered in that moment.  After all, she would have went on any adventure with him.  She didn’t have the capacity at the time to understand that the beer cans were part of the magical adventure too.  They helped to create that magic.  These were the earliest days.

The worst part about a father leaving his daughter is that he takes a part of her self worth with him when he goes away for good.  And she doesn’t even realize it.  This is because there is no clear line of abandonment but rather just a slow unavailability of disappearance that fades away where something just isn’t quite right.  So what happens is that for a large part of her adult life, when she should be making the best choices and having the best time of her life, she is instead crying because she has made poor decisions that, without her realizing it, is from the beginning a terrible barometer of life that never worked from day one.  She becomes a willing participant in a life to hold the torch for the person who is never going to realize what’s necessary until it’s too late.  And these types will always produce tears.  And she will always hold out for them anyway as she is good and very well conditioned at waiting for that something.  And in this will always be lost affection.  An endless time clock ticking for a countdown that will never be completed.  The ability to adapt to the numb and isolation of what you ‘know’ is the most tragic loss as this is a barren wasteland in a field of misplaced opportunity.  This is the platform that as an adult leads down a dangerous path of getting taken advantage of without fully understanding at the time what that really is about.  When memories of a rape or abandonment come back as a (later) adult you start to see why you got into this vulnerable position to begin with.  Of course the puzzle pieces fall into place much later, like at a bar when you have alcohol coursing through your veins or when you are alone in your bed and having an orgasm by yourself.  The pieces fall into your lap at that time.  And you secretly wish that you didn’t have to sort pieces of an unclear puzzle.  Especially alone. 

In truth, to come into this place, with many shattered dreams at her feet, is a rite of passage into being a woman.  This is when you begin to see that love isn’t supposed to be a thing you are always trying to wait for recognition on, but a thing that is joint and beautiful and pure from day one.  This isn’t supposed to be hard or sought after.  You don’t have to be that little girl who is always waiting on him to come back for her.  You don’t have to walk around the planet fractured.  The first step is understanding this.  And from here….