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Monday, October 21, 2013

Floyd's First Name

I don't like my last name. Not because it sounds weird, or that it's spelled funny, or that it reminds me of my dad. But because it makes me think of my Dad's dad. I can't say that it reminds me of him, because I never met him, but it reminds me of the fact that he never gave me the chance. He never gave half of his grand-kids the chance, and I'm afraid to ask why. I'm afraid to know why life could be so bad that you could give it up, when the alternative is spending time with people who are as great as Dad and Auntie Judy and Auntie Barbie and Kishka. What could have been so bad that you needed to leave this world, with them in it, for another, without them. There were so many stories I've never heard, so many memories of you that could be there, but aren't. I am too ashamed and afraid to ask why, but I still want to know. I'm still curious as to how and why you are no longer with us; I am still curious as to your full name. But I know you are never mentioned by it, never talked about by name or thought about with fondness out loud, and so I don't know why you deserve my dad's last name; because although you had it first, he deserves it, and you, you gave it away to a better man.

1 comment:

  1. The emotion behind this is amazing! You wrote this in such a poised way. It didn't come across as mad, but in a more curious tone. I don't see any grammatical errors.

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