by Monet Renae

Created on: July 01, 2007

Forgiveness, an emotion that eluded and haunted my mother, something neither she nor I have ever experienced. Ever since I'd known her she'd been distant from me- withdrawn, as though I bore the blame for her mundane existence. She'd never reached out to me, never stretched forth her arms in a loving embrace. She held to that which soothed her, that which consoled the sorrow, which my father and I could not supplant. Though an alcoholic, she was inattentive long before that.

My poor father, ensnared by a moments fleeting passion, what kind of man could he had become had she not destroyed him? Had she not tainted him with her vileness?
Rarely did we see him, he was elusive. A senator and attorney, he'd spent the majority of his time advocating for the civil liberties of others, ensuring that his constituents led quality lives, and preparing for his candidacy for President. I'd always admired him, always sought the attention and passion from him he'd exhibited in his work, to no avail. We'd been set aside like porcelain dolls objects to be gazed upon, never touched - interacted with, simply garnish for his political ambitions.
His relationship with mother was barren, desolate in every sense of the word. He'd not given consideration to her, her ideasme. We were discarded- I was discarded. His actions seemed more mechanical than affectionate. The courteous hugs from father to daughter, the general conversation and lack of eye contact, left me feeling superfluous. Was he as I, trapped? Was I the origin of his discontent? Had I trapped him in a marriage he'd grown resentful of over the years? Had my existence brought about a web of entanglement he'd not desired?
My father lives a lie, what secrets he must hold; the senator who professes family, commitment, and forgiveness; qualities he himself does not possess. Skillful at his craft, fathers chosen profession had sharpened his ability to slant truths and embellish that, which was questionable. He was a shrewd attorney, calculating and inquisitive. He'd boast that in his line of work one had to be a detective, doctor, researcher and confidant- confidant. How dare he use those words? He'd denied my mother her intimacy. He'd not detected that she longed for him, nor was he able to heal the wounds of times terrible passage she'd endured.

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