BREAKDOWN IN PUBLIC BATHROOM: AFTER URINAL, BEFORE ADJUSTING NOSE RINGS. NO TEARS.

I look in the mirror and see a ghost. Pale as parchment paper, shin sheets of my past selves stacked on top of one another.

I’m not high or drunk or tired or grieving. I’m just looking in the mirror and staring at the skin cells that have adopted me.

They say skin cells flee every 48 hours and so we’re perpetually orphaned but I’m not orphaned. I’ve got a living wife and living daughter and living father and living sisters and all that but still there’s that wide open zombie wound like my mom died yesterday.

Not it’s not like that. It’s like she died today.

I wonder if I’m dying with her. Not all at once, but a little bit every day.

People say get over it, move on, stay busy and for the most part that’s right but there’s a part that’s bigger than “for the most part” where all that practical move-on shit is wrong because some things you never really get over.

My sister says nostalgia is homesickness for your past self.

My other sister posted a picture of me and my other two sisters in an elevator at a wedding seven years ago. Not long enough that mom was alive but still.

My mom.

Pumpkin chocolate-chip muffins, garden, running, compost, stand up straight, smile, brush your teeth.

I heard her voice the other day

I wasn’t high or drunk or mad or sad or in church or cemetery. I was just lying on the carpet and the barn was unfinished wood and the carpet was wet light blue green like grey ocean and I heard her voice brand new.

I’m writing hip hop and all verses boils down to mom.

I’m writing a confessional autobiographical piece about my own sexual psychology and why I’m horny but still haven’t raped anyone and won’t ever do that and that goes back to mom too.

Mother’s Day is bullshit because it’s only one day and flowers and brunch don’t amount to anything because mom is everywhere all the time and nowhere and it’s not just one day it’s every day and making it just one day is grotesque and sad.

I look in the mirror and see a ghost. Pale as parchment paper, shin sheets of my past selves stacked on top of one another.

>>>A POST-IT NOTE FOR THE READER: I'm coming to the conclusion that everyone you meet, or bump into, or sit next to, or randomly think of while boiling 6:05AM-water for coffee ....all these people need you. Not like you met them for a divine purpose, but like we ALL need each other, we ALL need as much wind in our sails as the spinning globe can muster. This is all connected. You know what I mean. Hopefully The Alt Dad Diary posts nudge you in a beneficial way. If so, nudge me back. You can support me and my diary project and what it means to tell the naked truth in a long-form format. Check out patreon.com/altdaddiary to pick a monthly supporter amount. EVEN $1 IS A DAMN NICE NUDGE.