Date: Feb 27th, 2008 7:13:31 pm - Subscribe
He never really knew her.
He never met her friends. He never saw her room. He never went to her school or met her teachers or had dinner with her family. He never smelled the jasmine and honeysuckle waiting with her at the bus stop on an early May morning. He never asked about her life or her cat or her yard or how long her bus ride was.
He had no idea who she was outside the borders of his time with her. He knew her in the context of a single room apartment, on weekends and summers and christmases. He limited her in the same ways he limited himself, compartmentalizing her until she fit on his terms ... he never saw her bloom, and spread, and grow. He never saw the ways in which she touched people, and how her touch changed them for the better. He remained purposefully, consciously ignorant of everything about her that wasn't about him.
Perhaps if he had known her, really seen her as she was, not as who she had to be when she was with him - if he had known her as I know her, if he had been able to see past his own interests and look for once at hers ... Maybe, just maybe, if he had been able to see himself through his daughter's eyes instead of his own...
Maybe she would still have a father, instead of a memory of the day she found out he had taken his own life.
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