A letter to you

You know I originally planned to write this down as a reflection to myself so that I could upon it later, when my head was clearer and far more objective. Then I thought what the hell? I mean it’s sometimes better to simply share those thoughts that keep us pensive in the weary hours of the night when sleep becomes an unlikely oblivion.
I had what can only be aptly described as a type of enlightening epiphany yesterday night, when I sitting on a the couch with Merry, watching her breast feed her child while looking down him with one of the softest expressions I’ve ever seen a person bestowing on another. It was love, clear as night and day and could not be taken as something else. It was beautiful really, gee, I’m becoming a sentimental twit. But anyways, back to what I was saying, we must have been sitting on that couch for about half an hour and yet I could probably count on my fingers the number of sentences that transpired between us in the duration of that time. It’s sad really; I can tell that she is one of those inherently good people – the type that cares and makes up for people’s mishaps – sort of like mother. And yet, while sitting on that couch in the middle of that imposing living room I found that I could not feel anything but an extreme fondness for her, it was weird, frankly disturbing to think that one can harbour feelings that seem so minuscule when put in proportion to what our relationship dictates. However, with her I feel that we can skip that whole stage that takes place when you’re reacquainting yourself with a dear lost friend or family member, going right past the pleasantries and into loving the person wholeheartedly – remembering what it is about them that made them so instantly likeable. I felt a longing for a more binding relationship with Merry when I sat there with her, watching her watch her child – nurturing it with timeless care, but then that feeling was replaced an ache, for the years that were stolen from us because of more than mere physical boundaries.
I realized that in some sort of unconscious self-preservation I’ve become extremely observant and very sensitive to the undercurrents around me, to the people, specifically. I notice their little shifts in mood, the tone in which things are said, and inconsequential inflictions in people’s voice. Due to that heightened sense of awareness I’ve been able to understand some people better than I would have thought possible to, considering the short time I’ve been here.
For instance, Marcia, I start with her because I’ve spent more time with her than some of the others I’m going to be talking about. In my mind, I refer to her as the disillusioned dreamer. When I look at Marcia, I see a reluctant cynic in her, a young girl that possesses eyes that were made to be complemented with lights, because if you look hard enough at her you can see the specks of it in the depths of her stare. But all that potential light has been replaced by something a little disconcerting, I don’t know exactly what though, but I get a hint from the types of comments she makes and the thing she asks me. She found me looking a picture of Neusa and I during New Year’s eve and said, “you guys must have a lot of fun, you look happy. I bet Canada is good.” She said the former in such a wistful tone that I found myself wanting to play fairy God mother to her desires and farfetched dreams. After that innocent comment I began to think more of Marcia’s plight, it must have been hard to her to be so young and stranded in a place she’d rather not be and with a baby. And if that was not enough to cause for that brooding expression I catch on her face when she thinks she’s not being observed, we can add insult to injury when she finally gave birth to a still born child. I’m assuming that when she first discovered she was with child, she was scared shitless and probably less than excited, judging from her personality and her tender age. But I also imagine that once that baby started growing inside her and when he would occasionally kick at the most inopportune moments, she in turn was getting a kick out of the prospect of becoming a mother – like I said, she was once a dreamer. I’m sure that was not the consummation she had in mind for herself. All in all, she sort of reminds of Emma; the less resigned version. By the way, Marcia is eighteen.
Naoomy is quite different though, I genuinely like her. She’s one of those easy people to talk with, with her sarcastic wit and her eagerness to share something funny. She also has smart eyes, someone you need to be a bit more cautious around, I know it sounds contradictory in the context of what I previously said, but I hope you get my meaning.
I would talk more about the others if I didn’t have more pertinent things to discuss with you, the real deal. Sorry if my letter lacks a certain type of coherence but my head is in overdrive. One minute I’m thinking about the red dust in the wind and of moments I’ve never experienced but would have liked to. And the next minute I’m thinking that the ground I walk on here has too many holes, in need of asphalt to levigate it – to keep in intact. See, I’m all over the place!
Funny in one of my unguarded moments I told mother that I felt like an interloper in this house, and this bewildered look came across her face, like what I was saying was of the most ludicrous nature. Hahah, same thing different place, she simply doesn’t understand. I think I’ll quit trying to explain it, my attempts yield little. It’s okay though, I understand her far better than she does me. Mother’s reactions sort of remind me of Coleman Silk’s mother in The Human Stain, when she would lightly scour through her son’s obvious difference with a complacent and even indulgent smile, but would equally cease trying to understand the enigma that her was her son. In my case, the obvious difference is that I’m the adopted daughter, something that everyone has always known and has never been able to get past it. It accounts for the matter in which my aunts – in my dad’s side – have treated me. This distant politeness, something that has a class of its own, indifference mixed with kindness. I’m not saying that my mother doesn’t care about all these things, because she truly does. However, the architecture of her mind and how it processes things simply disables her from comprehending me. You might think that I’m underestimating her capacity for being in tune with my feelings but that’s not the case, she’s created this cocoon around herself because looking too closely into things might make her feel as if she has failed me. I’m walking on shards of glass here, I’m not easily cut though, and I’d like to think that I take it all in stride.
I’m beginning to learn about my father in this trip. Not knowledge that is gained through questioning or idle conversations with that bear no real meaning, I feel that this is deeper. My learning stems from an unshakable curiosity that was brought on by a fascination I have developed for a man that during hard times, took on the responsibility of caring for another man’s child. My parents have been together for 20 years now and yet they haven’t a child of their own. I find myself wondering if he has ever pondered that when holding me as a child or had he simply smiled down at me and thought that I was enough to make up for that disappointment. I’m awed by how much of me has been shaped by him, the temperament, the resilience. I feel like while my parents are my parents there’s still there is so much I need to learn about them, have you ever felt that way? Are you parents more forthcoming about what they were and who they are?