Robbed

This entry will eventually become a poem. It’s kind of the way I’m feeling right now, so I wanted to get it typed up.

I’ve been robbed, held at needle point, most of what I held dear pulled away from me, taken over two decades. I didn’t get to dress up, stand against the wall while bad music played and lights beat to the pounding bass at the Father/Daughter dance.

I didn’t have the opportunity to intimidate a prom date, sitting on the front porch in my underwear and a “wife beater” tee shirt, cleaning my shotgun, spitting chewing tobacco over the railing into the petunias. No, my intimidation experience was much more dramatic (and a failure).

I didn’t sit in an over packed gymnasium and stare at the back of mortarboard hats and long robes trying to pick out my child before she strode across the stage, make an inappropriate celebratory gesture, grab that diploma and shake hands with staff that probably thought better of their acknowledgement.

No walking arm-in-arm, me in an ill-fitting suit, she in a long flowing gown, a veil hiding the whisper of I love you. No firm hand shake or solicitation of a promise to keep her happy and to always treat her right.

No, none of that. Stripped away from me in the full light of day. Held up by a rebellious child and her accomplice mother.

Robbed once of being a grandfather to my three granddaughters, taken ransom, proof of life given in return of favors, “loans”, handouts. Granddaughters hidden away to “protect them” from the evil grandfather until gas money was needed, turned victim into a threat to have to go live with grandpa. Is that what you want?

Then robbed again of being a grandfather, becoming a surrogate father. There is no sneaking candy to the kids and sending them home to let the sugar kick in, instead, telling them No, you’ve had enough sugar, becoming the prophesized evil grandfather, raising them out of neglect and addiction.

They’ve been robbed as well, no weekend getaways at Grandpa’s house, no rule bending from the “old man”. The old man now makes the rules. They, too, have made their police report, accused the thief of taking all their hopes and dreams.

My wife has been burglarized, in the middle of the night, all the promises of a future of travel, weekend shopping at flea markets, quiet and tranquility, the prints of the perpetrator left all over our lives, smudges of whorls and loops on a well planned life together.

We’ve all been robbed, yet sentenced to carry out the punishment ourselves.

Let’s talk soon…