Imagine there wasn’t a history between you and me. Imagine we were not connected by years of disconnectedness. Imagine we were strangers except for the shared DNA. Imagine.
Do you imagine we could have come together after 50 years of our own separate lives with no memory of a history of birth, laughter mingled with tears, hurts, and haunts?
Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in a busy restaurant, straining to hear each other’s silences. Imagine you wanting coffee and me not knowing coffee was one of your obsessions.
Do you imagine we’d stumble for the words to say? Would you be interested to hear about all or only some of the past 50 years? Do you imagine you’d share your tales of travels, where the world and life took you since my conception? Would you ask about my mom? Imagine there’d be pictures?
Imagine neither of us coming to this pre-arranged meeting alone, afraid of what we’d find or rather, what we wouldn’t. Sharing no previous history we didn’t have hope nor despair on which to hang our hats. You meet my daughter, I meet your son. We’re polite as are they. Imagine the look in their eyes when they realize they’re nearly the same age.
Do you imagine we’d work through the awkwardness? Would we find enough common ground on which to tread? Would we progress beyond talking about the weather or the economy? Imagine you’d tell me in 100 words or less how, why you found me? Imagine it would be more?
Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in this busy restaurant, you nearly shouting about the clanking and clattering china, that you were my dad and how you so very much wish you’d thought to do this sooner, before you got sick.
Do you imagine I’d come away from this meeting with love, or . . ?
Imagine there wasn't a history between you and me, imagine.