When I got home tonight, there were two notifications in my mailbox! I HAVE SNAIL MAIL! I think my father's gifts are here! *S* I wanted to tear over to the post office and force them to give them to me tonight, but the notifications say TOMORROW *impatient sighs*.
He sent me Habs stuff. I am thrilled, and waiting impatiently. I know he touched these things. I know it. There is energy in those packages, in those shirts, sent to me with love. I cannot bear the idea that I have to wait almost twenty-four hours for them when they are AT THAT DAMN POSTAL OUTLET DOWN THE STREET!!!
Almost thirty-nine years. Thirty-nine years to touch something that my parent has touched. Oh damn, now I am getting choked up. I think my father really loves me. I think so. I know I love him, and my mother too, in that silly simplistic way of mine. It does not require reciprocity, it is just there. They are my parents. They gave me life. It is enough.
I like my father as well as love him. We are getting to know each other. It is a good thing. I am his only birth child. I have never been anyone's only anything. It is a strangely nice idea.
Is it Tuesday yet?
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