When dad died — when I learned that he passed way — I wasn’t shocked. Or so I thought. My immediate reaction as ‘why would he did that?’ By that, I meant die. Not killing himself, he didn’t do that. By the nature of my lying mother whom I cannot trust really, I cannot know the real reason of his death.
Heart attack, I’ve been said. He was 50 at the time. And one month. Or two. I hate it, not remembering the birthday of my own father. I have exceptional memory for fucking numbers. I hate it, but it just works without me doing any real effort. I remember birthdays of most people I encounter. I takes real effort to not store that information.
But him, it’s somewhere in summer. June or July. I believe it’s June, but I’m not sure.
I have to ask mum. While she’s still alive. I hate it, having to ask her. She’s not reliable, she asks too many questions. She judges and provides her opinion nobody asked for.
But I guess I’d lose his birthday date otherwise.
He died in August, 14th if I’m not mistaken.
Oh. I have his birth certificate. The only thing I have from him. I’ll look it up, huh!
I think, what if his birthday is tomorrow?
Weird thing is, my mind makes connections to the birthdays I know, they’re all connected by some weird logic. That’s how I remember them all. I failed to connect my own dad to others. For some reason.
The reason being my mother, not less. Being a parent, and having a wife with incredibly stupid mother and distanced father (who spoke with his own kids like twice)… huh, I’m terrified with how damaged all the kids raised by one human. Especially if that human is just stupid in general. You raise not having two optics, like having just one eye. You can see, just differently, missing some 3D and probably something else too. The brain adapts, but the damage is there. Palpable. (Not literally!)