when i was a kid, my dad wasn’t really my dad. biologically speaking, i inherited his predisposition for diabetes and addiction, though he wasn’t himself when i was young. he was trapped in a war that was over before i was born. so, my uncle stepped in. he did everything for me that my father couldn’t, and what’s more, he never said a word about it. he didn’t judge my dad for not being whole, instead he gave me what i needed so i could stand regardless of how the wind blew.

he taught me to read before i started school. he told me that sometimes life isn’t how it always should be, he’d seen a lot of the same things my dad saw. only, he didn’t mention it. my dad didn’t talk about it either, but he mentioned it with every breath he took. it lived inside him, this whispered loss. i heard it beneath his tongue, the anguish of being sent to a war no one wanted or needed and to come home broken, unwanted.

so my uncle never mentioned it, he just stepped in. he taught me to read. he told me, it’s not the endings that matter, a lot of stories are a lot of the same things, it’s the journey that makes it worth it, so choose wisely who and what to read