There’s glass in that photo frame. The significance of that eludes most. It’s something that helps me realise how far I have come. It reassures me that I am “ok”, that I’m “doing ok”.
I am “doing ok” right?
There’s glass in that frame. It’s silent proof that I “won”. I “got over it”.
I did “win” didn’t I? I am “over it” aren’t I?
Theres a picture on my bedside table. It’s of my dad. He’s smiling a happy smile. That reminds me of my less than perfect childhood, the parent that died before they got to know me. The less than perfect situation he left me in. He left me. I loved him. Regardless of his imperfections, I loved him. And he left me.
There’s no glass in that photo frame. The significance of that eludes most.