The Rituals that Exist(ed)

Inside this home lives memories that exist...but don't belong...not to me at least, not to me or father.

It has been that way for a long time now, a while I guess. Memories used to ponder between people as unspoken recollections, but those days don’t exist anymore. In this home moments lay, buried deep increases of vintage leather couches and stained strained strung up curtains that hide us away as blemishes. Still, I will admit sometimes it's nice to be lost in sudden darkness.

My father used to tell me that as a child I fawned for his observation. Mother’s could never fulfill the demand for existence father brew out of me. Though I was never aware of it, childhood became a time of disillusion for my mother. She, a woman of such valor and strength. she, an outlier in my course of love. she, an object in my possession. she, willingly relinquished at the grasp of father’s admiration.

Did she ever see father as I had? Views of my mother existed like copious stars in the sky. She shone beautifully on her own, her presence so distinct and glaring, yet only holding a small veranda in the world. Nights, reserved for the weeping of a life silenced by her husband, grievances paid for the woman eclipsed by her daughter’s spring.

If I had known my father in his youth, I’d say he bewitched blooming women through a subtle sultry in his seclusion from society. He existed as a star in his own right, in my own eyes, imploding upon my birth. He lived as scattered galaxies. Mother and I searching for a home in this world. In his world, he slugged backward occasionally tripping upon mother’s heel but never faltering in his assurance of her infatuation.