Permission

Volume I.

I probably had my first cigarette at the ripe age of ten—fifty cents, running from one neighbourhood parent to another. My mom needed her smokes. She needed her naps. Elvis Presley. Late-night courtroom trials pvr’d. That was all she needed; while I needed her.

My best friend at the time, her mom would often ask her to do the same.

Kids are curious and clever creatures, and we were no exception to that fact. While they napped we would look for their packs and take two instead of one—leaving behind an extra few cents from our piggy banks in case anyone grew suspicious. They never found out, at least we never knew if they did. Our tricks didn’t last for long, and neither did our mothers.

Volume II.

“If I could measure the distance between us I wouldn’t.”

It has been eleven years now, I guess that could be considered a distance of sorts. I stopped counting a while back. I’ve since replaced the years with milestones. Here’s what you’ve missed:

1. my elementary and high school graduation

2. some online girlfriends

3. my period

4. when dad caught me smoking

5. my first real heartbreak

6. and the moment I finally left home

7. (would you be proud?)

I think I saw you in my sleep last year.

Five days is a long time, but it’s become a rarity for me to remember my dreams—a blessing and a curse, I suppose.

You have missed three of your grandchildren and an uncomfortable amount of your husband's girlfriends. You missed me accepting his happiness while discovering my own. However, his most recent one has cancer now. I think our family is cursed.

Would you be proud of me if I told you I forgave her?

I even flew to bear her rings and hold her flowers. I like to think I did this in your honour, but maybe it was for him.

Yet, I still can’t remember what you sound like, possibly for the better.

The familiarity of your cigarette-stained fingers has fully faded from my memory.

Volume III.

I think this is the first time I wish I could show you something.

I’m with one of my best friends who you never got to meet. She would be intense for you, but I promise she lets me sleep. I have no reason to want to make you proud, however, for once I can finally hear something you might say:

“You wouldn’t catch me up there cleaning those cobwebs.”

“What a lovely floor to take a nap on…”

“Blue Christmas would sound nice in here.”

Somehow I find myself feeling you all around, and I’m the farthest I’ve ever been.

I cried to you the other day and I think this time you weren’t able to hear me. Maybe this is where you would have wanted to be—perhaps you’re here to tell me I’m allowed to be okay now.

I don’t need your permission.

I know I’m okay now,

and it has been nice to hear from you but I don’t think I can have you stay.

Take care,