I am feeling guilty about something that I have to get off my chest. Sorry kid… I will make it up to you somehow.
I went into the kid sis’s room to turn off one of the many steampunk machine things she’s got in there and I found a book that looked like a huge old 1800 egyptian travel journal. I took it to read. We always borrow each others books. So, I’ve sat in bed on my time off an realized I’ve read her journal about her side of the story of life with me. It spans many years with old letters and items glued into it. It’s sad, funny and artistic.
Wow, I vaguely remember some of the stuff I’ve done. Other things I can’t believe that was me. Some stuff I am more then amazed that she was so OK with. There are so many other pieces of the puzzle in there. It’s changing my perspective about a lot of things. It’s hard for me to put this book down even though I shouldn’t be reading her journal.
She’s pretty hush about her side of my antics. She usually just says, “Oh, it’s not important now. You look so happy these days.” I wish she would open up and just let me know what it was like for her to grow up with me being who I was. It’s like reading about someone else even though I have a vague memory and definite scars from some of the events I’m reading about.
Have other people ever pondered what pieces of the puzzle other friends and family hold? Have others also been surprised by the vast difference in perception between what we see and what our caregivers and friends see?