{"id":398,"date":"2018-05-02T20:07:39","date_gmt":"2018-05-03T00:07:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/?page_id=398"},"modified":"2018-05-02T20:18:32","modified_gmt":"2018-05-03T00:18:32","slug":"goodbye","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/stories\/goodbye\/","title":{"rendered":"Goodbye"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I wrote them a 21 page letter, telling them just how I felt. That was 32 years ago and not a word from them or from me either, for that matter. Actually I did expect <\/span>some kind o<\/span><\/i>f reaction from them but I got nothing, as usual. Once again, high expectations, dashed to the ground. Well, you can\u2019t say I didn\u2019t reach out, make the first move. They had their chance to put it all right, or put some of it right, or something, anything. But they didn\u2019t. Silence. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0There was just the two of us, my younger brother, Wayne and me. Wayne was the golden boy. \u00a0They didn\u2019t seem to notice the fact that he wasn\u2019t a real boy. And I\u2019m not talking about the Pinocchio kind of real boy, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. I don\u2019t care one way or the other that he was gay but they sure as hell would have, if they\u2019d bothered to notice. Dad took him golfing; bought him the best golf clubs, many times over, as he outgrew the old ones. Wayne had a great shank-it swing, never fail. And bowling, Wayne had the best equipment money could buy and lessons too. Who takes bowling lessons for crying out loud? \u00a0But Dad made it happen even though Wayne couldn\u2019t sling a pillow across the room, much less a bowling ball. Dad tried to teach Wayne to play billiards. We had a full size pool table in the rec-room. Dad was the only one who used it since Wayne had no aptitude whatsoever. Dad never asked me to play although I was pretty good. Taught myself. I guess, no, correction, I <\/span>know <\/span><\/i>he thought it wasn\u2019t what girls did. The closest my mother got to the table was to dust it once a week. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0We lived in a big house in the suburbs. Dad was an only child, worked for a big firm in town–an accountant. Mom kept house. She was the baby of a very large family, a blue collar family. So she was taking a step up when she got engaged to Dad before he went off to the Korean war. Mom embroidered pillowcases for her hope chest while he was away. That\u2019s right, a hope-chest. Really? \u00a0When he got back they got married. Did everything right, got the house, then a baby–except I was a girl and not the boy they\u2019d hoped for. They never got the boy they\u2019d hoped for, in a way.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0They are burying Wayne today. He collapsed on the patio of his apartment. I just happened to see the obituary. \u00a0That\u2019s how I keep in touch with the family, checking the obits. I have a first cousin once-removed that I called and got the details. I\u2019m wondering about the arrangements. Who made them? Who will be at the funeral? \u00a0Just Mom and Dad, maybe, since everyone else is past except cousins. As for me, I just can\u2019t do it. I can\u2019t open that door again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Goodbye little misfit brother. Sorry I didn\u2019t help you.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a9 Glenda Kotchish<\/span><\/p>\n

May 2018<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I wrote them a 21 page letter, telling them just how I felt. That was 32 years ago and not a word from them or from me either, for that matter. Actually I did expect some kind of reaction from them but I got nothing, as usual. Once again, high expectations, dashed to … Continue reading Goodbye<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":399,"parent":33,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-398","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/398","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=398"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/398\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":403,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/398\/revisions\/403"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/33"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/399"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=398"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}