“I have to make a conference call, but afterward we can talk.”
That’s great. Except that we never, ever talk.
You supervise me, sure. But do you talk to me? Barely. You have just enough time to give me the barest of instructions before you’re off to the next meeting. How to do it, or even if I can do it, is inconsequential, secondary.
I understand. I really do. You’re a busy man. I’m an intern. My sole purpose here is to help, and if I take you away from your work all the time, that’s not helping.
Still, though, it’s a waste of my time and yours if I sit here all day reading Divergent while I wait for our “talk.” I try, sometimes, to forge ahead and do projects with minimal guidance, only to have you finally clue in long enough to tell me I did it wrong. In two sentences, you tell me exactly how I should have done it. If I had known that before, that’s how I would have done it. Instead, I’m adrift in a mess of work where I can barely tell what I’m supposed to be doing at any given moment. Continue reading
You’re never there when I expect you.
You march up obnoxiously early.
You saunter in unfashionably late.
You don’t deign to come at all.
You make me anxious when you don’t visit.
You make me uncomfortable when you’re around.
You torment me till my stomach’s in knots.
You make me hate you (but not enough to wish you were gone).
You upset me.
You irritate me.
You hurt me.
You manipulate me.
You confuse me.
You anger me.
Why do I call you my friend, again?
I hid your letter.
Harvard accepted you, dear,
But you can’t leave me.
Written for Writing 101, Day 5: Be Brief.
Dear, Sweet, Peter
Gone from this world of pain you are finally at rest.
My heart is heavy. My tears flow freely.
You left today, the battle is over.
Today you run and sing with the angels.
— Written by my mom on June 4, 2014
Dear Uncle Peter,
I’m sorry I can’t write something beautiful in your memory. My mother expressed her emotions far better than I ever could.
I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for years, long enough that the memories are grey and faded.
I’m sorry I never sent the Get Well Soon card I intended to when I heard you were sick.
I’m sorry I never called to say hello and ask how you were doing.
I’m sorry I never visited to show you much I cared.
I’m sorry I can’t remember the last time I told you I loved you.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was praying for you, because I was, every day.
I’m sorry I waited to do all these things, because now it’s already too late.
I love you. I’m still praying for you, for your wife, your sisters, and all your loved ones who mourn your passing. May God grant you rest and make your memory to be eternal.
Posted for Writing 101 Day 4: Today, write about a loss.