the habit of being

A letter in the mail from my father today, the first word of him in months. Last I heard he’d left treatment center X and was traveling along the east coast. My mother gave me strict instructions to lock my doors and call her cell phone if he showed up here. The letter says he’d stopped taking his meds and gotten “squirrelly.” There was a 4th month in my home town jail and now he’s at treatment center Y for a year. Let S. know I’m sorry.. not in my right mind.. manic spree from hell. PS. I apologize for being such a poor father.

How he says “I apologize” instead of “I’m sorry” and “poor” instead of “bad”….. he’s a lot like me.

Lately I really miss James. Not that I’m forgetting how bad things were or glamourizing good times so long ago, I just miss him the way you miss the place you grew up, the way you miss your parents. I miss the way his hugs were always comforting, no matter what. We could be in the middle of an awful fight, but that hug always felt good. We were, after all, really close. I just don’t have that kind of closeness anymore, with anyone. I’m lonely. I want a friend; I want a companion. I want someone I can talk to. I want someone I can be there for; someone who will be there for me. I want all the cliches, only I want the real thing.

I want trust. It’s been such a long time.

I also want that intense fragility tattoo. I emailed a Japanese calligrapher I found in a Google search.

In my kitchen I have these jars of green beans from my step-grandmother’s garden. She gives my family a year’s worth every Christmas; they’re amazingly good. I love them. When I disappeared, my mom just couldn’t bear to eat them, she said. Sent me three jars in the mail, wrapped in towels. I can’t get the lids off.