Little m Long a

I’m not quite sure why I care, why it matters.  I’ve never met the guy.  I may have seen a picture once but that was years ago and the photo was old.  I certainly couldn’t pick him out of a line-up.  To me, he is nobody.  No one.  Of no more significance than the the piles of dog shit scattered in my yard.  Check that.  The dog shit is infinitely more significant because it’s here and there is always the looming possibility of an encounter.

He’s not here.

That statement is literal and altogether more metaphorical than could ever be adequately explained—especially to an eight year old girl.

I never knew my dad, Zoë’s grandfather.  I was two years old when he died.  Long before any lasting memories could be formed, before any type of permanent impression of the man and who he was could be imparted to me.  At least that’s my interpretation.  I’m sure that in many ways I’m quite like him.  Or not.

The point is, he’s gone.  He never stood on the sidelines of my little league games or helped to coach any of my teams.  He didn’t teach me how to pitch a tent or build a fire.  We never played catch in the yard.  He never taught me how to shave or tie a necktie.  He didn’t tuck me in at night or read me stories.  We never just hung out and shared a soda.

I’m not bitter or even sad about any of this.  It’s just a simple fact of a life I wouldn’t change for anything.  My dad was never here but at least he had a pretty good excuse.

This guy does not.  Unless you consider being a worthless, self-serving, soul-less bastard an excuse.  It’s not, in case you were wondering.  There is absolutely nothing you could tell me that would make this person justifiable.  Nothing.

Oh, unless you are trying to explain to me that no matter how far we have advanced, that no matter how many strides we are able to make personally and collectively as a society towards redemptive acceptance of each other, faults and all, that hatred will always exist.  Then yes.  Here’s the shining example–hatred still exists.

Sad thing is, it’s one way.  The feelings of anger, resentment, bitter hatred and utter loathing are lost because the guy literally has no conscience and no remorse for his actions and how they have affected the lives of people I hold very dear.  The time and energy I spend despising the air he breathes is wasted energy.  I shouldn’t care.

But I do.  I care quite a lot.  Maybe it’s because I’m supposed to.  More likely it’s because Zoë cares.  Because she has questions.  Unfortunately, she’s got no frame of reference, no reason and no way of comprehending how someone, anyone could be so reprehensible.  So selfish.  She’s got no idea of what makes a person a useless, valueless piece of crap.  She’s yet to be wronged in such a way that her heart becomes that bitter, that filled with rage.

Her world is unicorns and rainbows and fairies and princesses.  And though sometimes it might rain–the cool showers only help the flowers to bloom.  The sun always comes back out.

Maybe I care so much because that’s the world I want her to continue to believe in, to continue to live in.  I want her world to remain a bright pastel canvas of happy.  Maybe it’s just the father in me that aches to protect her, to shield her from disappointment.

Because the only disappointment, the only heartbreak an eight year old little girl should ever know is that sometimes you just outgrow your pretty princess gowns or that occasionally we might run out of ice cream.  Butterflies sometimes fly away or not every-one’s favorite color is pink.   Not that the person you so badly want to know as your grandfather is a despicable waste of humanity.  A person so disgusting and so vile that he should be charged with a criminal act simply because the air he breathes is denying someone more worthy.

And most assuredly, Zoë, he is not worthy of the goodness that is you and your innocent heart.