“That’s the thing about memories, they don’t need invitations.” — Me
The last visual memory was at a distance. His head hovering over a cracked open passenger seat window. The phrase “Hey son,” hitting like an intruder; far from a greeting. To acknowledge the title of son would be to acknowledge this person as kin, issue a pass into his world, something he wasn’t willing to do in the face of his let-down.
Years before that moment, this person was the image of an empty parking spot on a Christmas day. Young eyes fixated from an eight story apartment building above. This person never showed up when he promised he would. Hours wasted, the words “I’ll be there soon,” still etched in this young mind like an oath, clouded from the more truthful words of a mother anchored in reality, reminding him not to get his hopes up.
It would be years before he would see his face again at the corner of that random bus stop at Lake shore and Tenth. His stare given in reply to that phrase “Hey son,” didn’t need vocals to voice indictments against this greeting. The unspoken words hung in the air, enough for this man to force his gaze forward, the slightest expression of shame betraying his casual front before driving off. The young man’s satisfaction solidified, if not for a moment.
Over the years, He had thought the memory was blocked, but standing by that same bus stop years later, a familiar sensation of disappointment returns like an uninvited guest.
That’s the thing about memories, they don’t need invitations.
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