I wonder what his scar will look like.
You see, them Johnson genes run strong, and I have always looked like my father. Same complexion, same circular scars that run up and down our legs, courtesy of ezcema for the most part.
But I’ve never had surgery. My father has had two in the past two months. He’s looking at his third if the pain doesn’t go away.
Never would I have believed the state my family is in. Not ten years ago, not five years ago, not even two years ago. But not everything, maybe even not most things, in life are stable. That’s a lesson I’ve been learning for quite a while now.
My mom worries about losing the house. My dad worries that not working will keep them from paying the bills. He can’t work, and I hope that the stubbornness that also runs through our family doesn’t screw him over. Sit down, rest.
Maybe it’s our time to sweep in and take over the role of the caregiver, the provider. The children helping their parents make it, not the other way around. I mean, eventually, that’s what’s to come, right? But is that time really now? In a way, I still feel like we’re still babies ourselves. We’re not done getting it all together. And I still got scars of my own to deal with.
My scars are invisible. They’re the doubts and the worries. It’s the fresh heartbreak I still find myself crying over. My honey [my baklava glue]. I miss him so much. I want him so much. He’s hurt me so much. It’s like he took the pain life throws at him, repackaged it, balled it up and threw it right back at me. Hard. And that wasn’t fair. Not when he knew that I told him I’d be right there with him to carry that weight of the world, so it wouldn’t break his back. But people make their choices for their own reasons. I still love him. God knows I still love that man.
::sigh:: Today it’s rainy. Heaven’s crying.