A piece of card. Just one a year, just one day a year. A day that signifies my birth. Something of great praise; but yet means so little, valueless. The plain, childish print, a basic grandmother to granddaughter birthday card. A hollow, faint slap as it hits the table. Weak and fragile, representing our bond. One card, one day a year, all I have and know of you.
It hasn’t moved far. From the occasional movement slightly left or a bit right, caused from gazing over the meaningless words in curiosity. But it’s been years since it’s left my room, and it’s old paper is now slowly breaking down, and fading away. I can’t picture my room without it, so for now, it’s not going anywhere. Still, even though I don’t care for it, or for you, I could not bring myself to throw away the only memory I have left. Your small, bold handwriting spells out my name. I try to hear your voice saying my name, but I can’t. The words are hollow to me, worthless. Spoken by anyone else, it could fill you up. But because they came from your mouth, someone who means nothing to me. They’re empty, pointless words.
What really makes me wonder, runs through my head, crossing every corner of my imagination, is the irony of the print on this particular birthday card. A magical, mythical beast prancing on the front. A childhood symbol of freedom and awe that catches and drags at a kids mind, representing magic and youth. Yet, you gave it to me. Whether you thought into it, or it was a random pick of hand. A last minute stop at the news agency closest to my house, the smell of newspapers and old vents forcing you to pick the first card that looks mildly appropriate for the occasion. A rushed and careless decision.
Or through my own negligence had I misjudged the entire situation. Have I become so sure that of how thought you had made me feel that it had become true, had it been misconceived all this time. I’ve convinced myself that you broke my heart, that you were the bad guy. It’s been so long now my mind struggles to paint the image of your face, your name is the only thing that remains within the twisted stories and confused family lines. You’re just a memory. Although it means nothing now, and will never mean anything, the story sticks with the card. It’ll always be a memory. A reminder of you. And for as long as I live, it’ll stay with me. Occasionally moving slightly left, or a bit to the right; from a curious kid, just trying to remember.