The History of Experiences, An Elegy

We share a past.

Interconnected by time and space and God’s talent for making good happen in the midst of human error created a bond that is impossible to completely erase. I am not the foolish type and only a fool would deny the existence of the trajectory of your life that collided with fate and created me. I am often loathed to do so, but I must always give credit (and in that moment also thanks) where credit is due: without you, I would not be–alive, creative, wordsmith, intuitive. The creator noted the best parts of your self and pronounced these blessings over my life knowing that you would not be there to do so. The blessing of the first among many, my birthright snatched from the jaws of immaturity and pain. And yet,

We share no experiences.

The wormwood of my life has been this awful sense of knowing of you but not knowing you. Pulling together a real person from the phantasmal memories of my mother and words strung together as mournful poetry written as tribute to a love no longer shared. I cannot remember ever holding onto you, have no recollection of you holding me. There only exists the empty space of what should ne there: laughter, anger, joy, sadness, good times, hard moments. Experiences. Memories. And so,

We stand looking at familiar strangers.

I look like your mother. I write your words. Everything else is mystery to me, bleeding hearts punctured by the sharp world of facts that stab my psyche. I should be interested in knowing these tidbits of your story but I am not. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of my need because you are not the open book you claim to be. You are forever wrapped in the complex mystery of understanding that comes from living, loving, crying, suffering, trying, failing, and being together.

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