To The People I’ve Forgotten

So, yesterday, I was on my way up to Wittenberg where I was in desperate need of getting a few things done—dropping/adding a class for the summer, getting my things ready to move from my house to another apartment on campus, and casually closing out a ridiculously high bar tab. However, something happened when I was at my house that I never saw coming, nor really thought I would ever do. 

I wasn’t having the greatest day, and yes, I know it’s summer, but sadness can follow anyone, anywhere. I needed a moment in between the moving and gathering of my things, so I walked over to my desk in my room, felt it’s smooth edges, and sat down. I remember just staring at the ceiling for a couple minutes before I looked down and saw a framed picture from when I was in about seventh grade. From left-to-right in the picture goes me, my step mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and then their three kids (Wil, Caroline, and Peter). In front of all of us are my grandparents sitting in these beautifully pure white chairs that I can still smell the scent of; on the right is my grandmother and the left sits my grandfather (who is half smiling). The picture was taken in their house in the Smokey Mountains, all of us dressed in navy blue shirts, and if you look hard enough, you can see a glimpse of a mountain peak in the window off to the left.

What struck me and caused me to eventually write about this picture, and not my conflicting emotions of the day, was how I can only imagine one other time since this picture was taken where we were all together in the same place, attempting to smile and be a family.

My youngest cousin, Peter, who sits on the far-right, looks like our grandmother just gave him one of those kisses we all cherish. Peter has always been my favorite cousin because he was so young and alive with life as a young boy, reminding me of the days before I lost my innocence with this world. His wit, intelligence, and drive to be something that nobody else has ever seen before is something I admire and hope he still carries with him. His sister to his left, Caroline, was surely the prettiest and smartest girl in her school. I’ll never forget the moments she came up and hugged me, telling me and my father about what she was doing at school—whether it was cheering or playing in the band, she was always doing something important. She had an air about her I don’t really see that much, an air that smells of greatness lurking, and I sure hope that’s still there. To her left, the oldest and most wise, Wil. Recently, Wil just finished his first year of college at the University of Indiana (which I am so damn proud of), but in this picture he probably just got off my back from one of those numerous piggy-back rides I gave him in that very house. You see, at the time they lived in Tennessee and I lived in Ohio, and we didn’t get to see each other that often. So, when we did, it was magical and special; I’ll never forget staying up late with him in the bedroom my grandfather built above their garage and just goofing around, being kids. Wil has always been the leader of the three, and not just because he is the oldest and most wise, but because he carries love for his family that sometimes, regrettably, I don’t carry. 

Next to Wil is my beautiful Aunt Amy, who told me just last summer to never let go of the writing I’m doing, that it will take me somewhere (and yes, Amy, I am still writing). Her smile and dirty blonde hair resting on her shoulders in the picture give me a quite reassurance that this world, this crazy world, will make sense to me one day. I’ve lost contact with her and my Uncle Chuck, who stands to her left with a sharp navy-blue Polo shirt on and resting his hands on the chair my grandmother sits on. The lack of communication with them, honestly, has left me sometimes forgetting what they are doing, where they are working, and most importantly, how they are doing. 

With that said, one of the points of me writing all this is so I can be honest with myself and realize the separation I’ve built with my family, and somehow reconnect with them. I’m not sure if anyone knows this or not, but in a way, this is the only way I feel like I can truly get out these feelings and regret for the lost time. Even though spoken words may be better than written words, they are still words from my heart and soul. 

Anyway, back to the picture. To the left of my Uncle Chuck is my father who looks much younger than he does today, not to mention more energetic. My father and I, at the time of this picture, were closer than we are today, and I have no problem admitting that. Growing up and trying to find my own identity and life as a young man is hard to combat and deal with when you have a father who loves you so much that he only wants your life to go the way he wants. I say this with the utmostrespect, but I have this nagging feeling in my heart to just be honest. Honest, honest, honest, honest. When we took this picture, I was scared to stand up to my father, to tell him no I don’t want to do the shit you are telling me to do. So, when I finally did, we lost connection and love began to fade. Dad, there doesn’t go a day that I wish we were this close, and there’s a part of me that truly believes I was a big reason you looked so young and energetic. For that, I am sorry, but I hope you understand; I hope you understand I need to be my own, whatever that may be. 

Next to him is my gorgeous, and nothing less than perfect,step-mother Joyce. Joyce, who behind my mother, sits at the top of the pedestal of love in my heart, and never leaves my mind. In the picture, she is smiling just as she does now, where her cheeks turn slightly red, and her short black hair barely reaches her shoulders. Out of all the people in this picture, she’s the one who knows me best, not even my father (which you can guess by now). Matter of fact, before you all read this, she did. She’s been a rock to me and nothing short of a stand-out role model. Like I said, I don’t say these things enough out loud, but damn do I love her and would have no idea what to do without her. Her courage and persistent effort to do all the right things are surely attributes I dream my daughters will carry and pass along. To her, much of my writing and success in my life can be attributed, and I cannot wait to walk across the stage at graduation for you. 

Oh, then there’s me—the chubby seventh grader who is wearing these baggy jeans I hope nobody ever sees. I’m smiling in the picture, but I truly don’t think I was happy there. Matter of fact, if we were to peel back each person’s forehead in this picture, and look inside their mind, we might find out that not everyone was happy. Truthfully, that’s okay, it really is. We were all in different points in our life, young and old, and sometimes family is the ones we hide our deepest emotions and feelings from. The point of me writing this isn’t to fire back at my family, but like I said, for me to finally be honest with myself. I love these people, and the picture wouldn’t be on my desk if I didn’t. However, I needed to realize that this picture represents the fact not everything has always been perfect, and a smile doesn’t mean happiness for everyone. 

Finally, we have my grandparents, who sit in front of all of us like the King and Queen they truly are. My grandfather on the left with his half-smile and tucked in navy-blue shirt reminds me of the man the world has been used to seeing. As I write this, I remember one time when I was young, and they came up for Christmas; I can’t exactly remember whether it was a helicopter or a train, but he gave me something, and all we did for the entire day was lay on the carpet of the living room and play. There were no half smiles that day—his teeth were showing through his mouth and his love was showing on his sleeve. That’s how I want to remember him, not with this half-smile picture.

I’d like to conclude with my grandmother because, like the last piece of a puzzle, she holds everything together and makes it all look the way it’s supposed to be. In the picture she has her head tilted to the left a tad, something she does when she is truly enjoying herself, and in my opinion, she is the happiest person involved. Her love and happiness in this photograph are things I’ve known about her for as long as I can remember. For example, every single time I see her for the first time on a trip, she sits next to me and puts one arm around my back, and the other over my heart, and doesn’t stop smiling. It reminds me of a story my father told me one time about his childhood, where himand my grandmother were in the car and she had to slam on the brakes for something, and she reached over and put her hand firmly over his heart, protecting him. With that said, my hand hasn’t been over her heart the way it needs to be. The regret I have for not being closer with her matches the love I have for her—bounding and endless. 

I need to be honest and realize I haven’t done enough, and this blog really isn’t enough either. All these paragraphs about the different people are snapshots and it’s like I don’t want to fully delve into the regret I hold and the feelings I have for all the things that have happened. This writing isn’t what I really need to be doing to get them back, but I can’t get the picture of us ten out of my head, and this is the only thing I know what to do sometimes.

What I truly need to do is get in a car and go see every single person I’ve talked about and tell them I love them, tell them I’m the one that should have been there more. But, shit. Will I do this? Will you finally get out of your own way, Logan? 

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