An Unforwarded Letter to my Parents (October 98)
I left a half read copy of Atlantic Monthly on your table top
A coffee stain soaked through the upper right corner
The pages are stuck together
They crack when you try to pry them apart
I thought it might remind you of me br>
Because sometimes I think you forget
Although I guess I'm a big boy now
There's no reason you shouldn't
You with your hard earned independence and unshackled lifestyle
But when you do, think of me, that is,
Does it always have to be in terms of
The admitted nuclei of my existence--wife, kids, pets
Or what I've failed to do
Or the vague generalities and misconceptions
Of what you think it means to be me
Filtered through the eyes of you, my forebears
I know. It's a hard order to fill
Impossible, really--I couldn't
I think of my own tendencies to discount and second guess my kids
And I'm sure you beat yourselves up, as I do
My misconception is that the path you have chosen with us
Is mostly laissez-faire
Probably understandable, given your pasts
Probably the only way to go
I guess, maybe. Perhaps.
But goddamn, it'd be nice to have an unasked for signpost along the way
"Your folks are really good to you," Nana will say, like a mantra
She's right. You do the right things and say the right things
Never say no when asked
Create and collect and catalogue our mutual memories
Like a string of plastic beads shoved into a jewelry box
And taken out from time to time to smile upon and nod
But not worn privately on too frequent a basis
I know you strive to be fair to all your children
First hand, I know how hard that is
It's hard not to form favorites, but you do
So you try to bury that favorite
As if they were a treasure chest on a beach
Away from jealous, coveting eyes
But not being the favorite
I can tell you the hows and whys of those glances
Oh, don't worry, big boys don't make boo boo faces no longer
Especially when I can see the reasons just by gazing in the mirror
I have no aptitude or interest in sports
Am overwrought, somewhat cynical, sullen, uncommunicative
I dislike one sister and make no bones about it
I say the wrong things at the wrong time
...I'm thick I can't tell stories worth a damn
have no head for finances
or interest in golf
or stocks
or... (deep breath)
And sometimes--and I suspect the biggest problem I have
In terms of fitting into society as a whole
I've never been an alcoholic and I've never had an interest in becoming one
Don't worry. My addictions are equally as disturbing.
But take a look in the mirror again, Mom and Pops
You'd see a slightly warped version of your own lives
I could count the ways but can't bring myself to
Like a couple I saw in a restaurant yesterday
I thought I recognized
But on second glance realized were complete strangers
A case of second verse, same as the first
Except the key is different, the notes slightly off, the tempo
Shifts subtly from a waltz to a march
It's as if the Junior tag obliged me to a path parallel to yours
But a lesser path, lacking in titles and honors
For, while finding pleasure and comfort in the road I've traveled
I find myself incapable of seeking and garnering recognition
I cannot curry favor and don't know the right words,
The right smiles, the quick jerks of the hand offered in greeting
That would transform me into a true junior
And I've passed on the moniker to a third recipient
Isn't that a kick?
Perhaps this version will fill in the gaps
I suspect you wish had been tread a bit heavier
The second time around
In any event, the magazine's on the coffee table by the television.
