Alone in the parking lot

Sometimes when I am alone with myself, I remember standing on the sidewalk as a child, waiting for my mother.

Whether it was after school, practices, games, dances, or whatever, I’d almost always be the last kid in the parking lot. I’d stand there, squinting in the distance for cars that looked like hers, calculating their distance and when they would have to turn in order for one of them to be hers. These numerous identical experiences create a string of memories, connecting myself as a child in elementary school to an 18 year old about to graduate.

I stopped taking it personally when I was quite young. I didn’t feel sadness or fear, only embarrassment when someone would start to notice my lingering presence. Usually this would be other parents or teachers who would often end up driving me home. I’d sit in their cars awkwardly, feeling like an inconvenience and wishing I could have lived with my dad instead. When I got older, I started walking home to avoid that feeling. The afternoon sun would slip behind my backpack.

It’s in these quiet memories where I am faced with the profound loneliness, uncertainty, and disappointment of having an emotional neglectful parent. My child, (if I ever have one), will never know this feeling.

Even the times that she did show up, she wasn’t there.