A Weekend in January

I thought about the story my father told me, of when I was a toddler playing with a “shape sorter,” surrounded by plastic figures, a small box with matching holes in front of me. I said my first string of words as I tried to shove a square block against a round opening: “Jesus Christ!” Whether my father’s story was true or not, I had no idea — given his lifelong hobby of humiliating my mother, I was apt to believe the tale was meant to shame her for cursing around his children. Our daughter’s first phrase, a blasphemy! But fact or fiction, trying to fit into spaces that would only reject me was a common thread in my life. I viewed the story as part of my own personal mythology, as it explained something that was otherwise difficult for me to comprehend. Instead of putting effort towards aligning myself with something or someone that fit, I began my new chapters by knowing they’d end in failure — and that frustration would define the space in between the beginning and end.

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