Thursday, December 4, 2008

Curio

curio \KYOOR-ee-oh\, noun:
a valued, novel object; an object valued as a curiosity, often a collectible

She'd always wanted something of her father's. Just a token. Proof that she had actually had one. More proof than pictures. Pictures that nobody looked at anymore. None around the house. None in her pocket or purse. She used to have an old slide with his face in the forefront, but she'd misplaced it somewhere. She tries not to think of it. It's shameful. How could she lose such a thing? She's sure someone more responsible, more respectable, would have considered it sacred, perhaps even built a shrine for it, figured out a way to put it in a locket and keep it round their neck. Not her though. She couldn't even tell you where the thing was anymore.
There are places though. Places she goes, drives by, stumbles upon, that make her think of him. Where memories tease her at the perimeter of her memory, his face like a mirage. She never remembers anything substantial about him, only visions that seem like daydreams. None of it ever seems real.
Like pie. She remembers pie. They used to have pie together. His treat. Their secret extravagance. And her belly button. Her earlobes. His favorite parts of her to tickle, make his little girl laugh. And his smiles and laughter. But she doesn't remember much more. Can those even be considered memories?
Sometimes she wonders. Maybe she invented these things. After all, what does she know about having a father? She doesn't know what it's like. And when others say they are sorry for her loss, she doesn't know how to respond. Their sympathy is nice, she supposes, but really, isn't it quite unnecessary? Not having a father is all she's ever known. To her, a father is a novelty. A collectible. A curious thing.

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