My Sperm Donor

Today I receive my beautiful 1910 Heintzman upright grand piano.

My fingers  have been waiting 5 months to play for my heart.  But, I have to be careful as to what I choose to play

Sometimes, it can pull me further into the pit of doom.  Sometimes, the most emotional of songs will reach that part of me that is aching, and those sound waves will whisper in my ear as if they are a living tortured soul, crying with me in empathy.

I've learned over the years as to which songs I should play for different feelings.  I am so sensitive to music, that when I'm feeling low, I can't listen to anything that would entice the demons to come for a visit.

When emotions are raw, I can only play classical music on those ebony and ivory keys.

These songs of intricate notes, filling the page, requiring every last bit of my attention will take my mind away from disaster and steer it into a more physical experience.

Once, I learned a song for my father.  He was a Supertramp fan, which means that I would be too.

anything to try to earn his attention ... it never worked

I learned 'Downstream' for him, because he liked it and had once said, "You should learn that one."

From that point forward, every time I played and sang that song, the tears would well up and I'd be crying through the words.

Last night, during The Great Sewage Flood Purge, I found a picture in it's frame that I've been hanging on to for about 12 years.  It was my reuniting with Dad.  I looked like a tiny child being held by her father, even though I was a grown woman.

I have hated the frame all this time.  It's ugly and dated, but I would hang on to it, because it's the only picture I have of Dad and I together.

I've seen him a couple of times since then, but it's still not the relationship that I needed so badly when I was a kid.

I finally took the photo out of the horrid frame and threw that bitch in the trash.  I put the depiction of falsity in a place with all the other photos Papi and I have found during our unpacking of mess.

It will go into a box with the rest of the forgotten images.

I feel as though the last ditch effort Dad could have made wasn't made at all, and he is now just as unimportant to me as I am to him.

Don't get me wrong.  I love Dad, because he's the sperm that brought me to this world, but I've never had a father.

I wanted Dad to be at my wedding and he and his lovely common-law wife said they couldn't make it down because of many reasons.  She has too much pain, they can't afford it ...

can't afford to come to my wedding, because they're too busy spending all their money on booze 'n smokes

... and the list goes on.

I understood the list.  I was a practising alcoholic/addict for years.  But what I couldn't forgive?  Not even so much as a congratulations, not a card, not a call, not a 'good luck'.

Nothing.

was it because it was a same sex marriage? 

Not sure what I was expecting from a dead-beat dad. 

andréa, haven't you learned? those damn expectations will get you every time.

The picture is being put away.  I hate that ugly fucking frame and I threw it in the trash with glee.

I will play my piano today for Papi and I.

I just might play Dad's song.  Somehow, I don't think I'll cry.

No.

Not anymore.