My Dad

Sometimes, you just have to look back on your life and realize that it's not going to happen again. Your life seems to get faster and you have to make the most of every opportunity.

Sometimes, you just don't get what you want most in life.

And sometimes, you have what you want, but you don't know it.

Last night, after my football team's first victory, I celebrated with some friends. We had a fire and roasted marshmallows in the back yard. Late into the night, I walked them home.

As we were walking, they asked me questions about my adoption. Not uncommon. I was glad to share my history with them. But then they asked me a question that I didn't have an answer for.

"Isaiah, do you ever miss your birth dad?"

I didn't answer right away. But they waited patiently, so I felt that I should give them an answer.

"I never knew my birth dad; he left before I was born." I replied.

We walked in silence after that until we got to their house. Before they turned to go into their house, I quickly added, "To answer your question, every child fantasizes about their parents being something they're not. I don't miss my birth dad. I'm happy with the one I have."

I walked away with my hands in my pockets after they thanked me for walking them home.

I had a lot of time to think.

My answer kept echoing in my head, "I'm happy with the one I have."

If that is true, why do I treat him like I don't want him?

In the back of my head, I know the answer. Because he loves me as if I were his own. As if he were my birth dad. And he would risk his life for me.

And it hurts to know that my own birth dad couldn't do the same. But I'm tired of comparing them.

By birth dad was a jerk. It takes no fantasy to see that. He's just my father. He's not my dad.

My dad. Now there's a man I could live with forever. I act like I hate him, when the truth is, I love him.

He's always there for me when I need him the most.

I love my dad. I always have. He's the opportunity in life that I've missed. I want it back. Now I know it's true, that sometimes you have what you want most in life.

But you just don't know it.

And for once, you have to be glad--to look back on your live and realize that it's not going to happen again.

© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
 Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Finally. A goodbye.

Today, we put my grandpa in the ground. I did. My dad and I knelt on the ground and lowered the small box of ashes into the ground.

I don't even know what to feel or think about that.

It was a four-hour trip to Pennsylvania. My dad drove, battling through the rain that threatened to invite danger.

Finally, we reached our destination. It was a little cemetery, with family buried there. We waited until my grandma, aunt, and cousins arrived.

Reluctantly, I walked over to the grave stones. There, in front of me stood the newest grave stone. Something in me gave.

It was my grandpa's.

It was a year ago, May 8, 2012. My grandpa died in a nursing home with all of us around. I'll never forget it. Or him. He loved me. He never cared about all the problems I gave him. He never cared about my past. He cared about now. That I was his grandson. That is why I never left him without his prayer.

I snapped back to reality when it was time to put the ashes into the ground. No one expected me to do this. To be honest, I was scared.

But I realized that this was the end. His ashes were all that remained in this world. This was the closest I would ever get to feeling his embrace again. No memory or dream would ever change that. He was gone and so was part of my heart.

I wanted to be strong. So strong. The day my grandpa died, I never cried. I saved it all, not wanting to give in.

But it hurt, as it did today. And for the first time, I am at a loss for words.

My sister said it well. She cried because she missed him.

"I don't want to say his name anymore," she sobbed.

My mom asked, "Who?"

Then my sister said, "The one I loved."

With that, the rain poured down.

I don’t know what else to say. It hurts. I hate it, because it controls me.

I guess that's what grief is; it is love's pained departure.

If possible, I would spend one more minute with him.


© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Painful photos from the past

Today was no different from every other day. I woke up. I ate. I went through the motions. My family went through stacks of papers and binders that were piled in the garage.

My dad left for work, so I brought in boxes and containers with papers inside of them. My mom and I went through the stacks, looking at pictures and adoption material.

There were my dad's work papers and anything else people could dream up.

That's when we ran into my old life's pictures.

In the stack, were pictures of my birth mom, birth sister, old family. On the back of most, there were captions, telling me who each person was. On a few of the pictures, there were letters, to me. I felt as if I had been slapped in the face.

I never wanted to be reminded of my past. But every day I am reminded.

Every day, someone else wants to know what happened to my birth mom, and every day I tell them, I don't know and I don't care.

But today, I was reminded that all my ignorance, was a lie. I do care. Even when I want to hide it. It rips me apart inside, just to know what she did with her life after I left.

I am scared.

Will the answer be good? Do I even truly care? Sometimes I feel guilty. The parents that I have, love me. They do everything they can just for  me. And all I think about, is the life that was taken from me.

I am angry.

I should have never looked at those pictures. To think, I will turn 18 next year. I will be an adult. An adult, that gets angry every time he hears his birth mom's name.

I am hurt.

Nothing will ever change that. I can not express my pain. I can only do it in the best place and way I know how: In my home, written in words.

I am torn.
That memories and pictures could so easily inflict wounds.

That is all I have to say.

I won't look to make it right. That won't change what I feel or believe. I only hope that she has changed her life.

And that every memory hurts her as much as it does for me.




© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.