Flounder

I found myself floundering for you. The way we had watched my heart pendant fall off the chain and scuttle across the floor. I looked at you helplessly and you raised your eyebrows at me. I open my drawer to finally write something and am bombarded my remnants of your visit: golden tickets, Magnums and P.I.’s. Today is a Hawaiian shirt type of day and I am reminded of my often Hawaiian-shirt clad father. Sitting with him eating pizza watching rats scurry around in the bushes outside the pizza joint or of how I cry every time I hear “Delaney talks to Statues” because I have built up this future of him and me dancing to it at my wedding. Why is it that the thought of my daddy often brings me to tears? Is it how much he has grown and changed? Is it my skepticism and my resentment at my own skepticism? Is it the memories lost? Or is it the similarities and how I continue to mimic him and only hope his newfound goodness will change me, metamorphosize me the way it has him?

And I flounder because I am searching for answers, for cures, for memories.