I will not ask how you’re doing. From my once in every two months stalking sessions, you seem pretty happy. Is it weird that I miss your family more than I miss you? I met your sister last month at the supermarket. It was a little awkward, because all we used to talk about was you. There being no you anymore (at least not in my life), we exchanged pleasantries and parted our different ways, unbroken ice all over, we could both use the trolleys we were pushing to skate.
At that moment, I couldn’t remember why I always thought she was the funniest one. The family always falls back to their person. I guess that means you took custody of her jokes as well when we separated. I still think about you. About your stark chest. And ooh… your hands. Good Lord, I am having impure thoughts right now.
Isn’t it amazing how for seven whole years, we lived in each other’s pockets and now I can’t even remember the last time I heard from you? I have a confession – sometimes I listen to Tupac Shakur because he reminds me so much about you. Heck, I have an entire playlist. A smile sheepishly plays on my lips when I think about how horribly you would try to sing along.
Leaving wasn’t an easy choice to make. I couldn’t date a man who compared me with his mother. It’s true that mothers are men’s first perspective of love and beauty. But even identical twins aren’t identical; they don’t have the same fingerprints. Okay, what I mean is, all hail the sense of individuality. I could never be your mother, Pete.
I really hope you stopped talking about her all the time. ‘My mom this, my mom that’ is the last thing a woman wants to hear when she came to a date wearing matching undergarments. I could never be her. I know her ilk. She could have been married for fifteen years, but her clothes would still be in suitcases and bags as if she was waiting for the slightest provocation and reason to go back to her father’s. I love to unpack, show you that I want to stay. Maybe pitch a little tent in your heart, let’s go camping!
Enough about your mother. I wrote to tell you two things.
One, when you and I would go for drives, I always noticed it when you slowed down to stare at derrieres. I loathed that with my entire being. And I would picture you picking them up when I wasn’t with you on those drives. Jealousy would get the best of me.
Two, I still have your polo shirt and white vest. I didn’t burn any of them, yet. Neither did my people curse you and your entire lineage. Anyway, you really should consider picking your stuff up. Speaking of things that belong to you, I have something else that’s yours. She’s turning four next month. Could you believe that she has your mother’s eyes and ears? She has your unibrow, Pete. She also gets the allergies whenever it’s cold, just like you did. Ella. Little Ella.
She’s so amazing. This one isn’t up for grabs though. She’s brave and angelic. We are still learning to color within the lines, which means there’s a lot of time before questions like: “Where’s my daddy, mommy?” come.
I know this is all a lot to process. You can come see her; if you want to. I have been doing some thinking, and perhaps having you around will be really great for her. We moved to 693 Ashmor Drive. You should swing by on Thursdays. That’s when we have pancakes. Thursdays are for pancakes, and Chai tea.
Ps; What exactly does pedantic mean?