The last time I saw my dad, it was after some time had passed and he was picking me and my daughter up at the airport. I was startled not to recognize him until he stepped forward and spoke.
I, however, at three foot tall, hair down to my butt with a big black lab at my side, am fairly unforgettable and very easy to describe. I can not imagine robbing a bank or trying to disappear into a new life somewhere as part of the witness protection program. Crime writing will have to do.
People all over town and the next town and the next, greet me by name. I nod, ask how they have been and rummage through my mind with questions. Is this a student? (I teach Tarot Reading.) Did I marry this person? (I’m a Reverend.) Are we related? (I married into a huge family.) Do they just know who I am for obvious reasons?
We part, I go back to shopping or whatever I was doing and my son who I seem to always recognize, my daughter, who changes her hair color when she does her nails or my darling husband, who I would not know from the mail man if he changed his clothes, shaved or forgot to wear a hat, will ask who I was talking to. The answer is always the same.
There may be a name for this problem. Shoot, I may have a disorder that has an abbreviated name. It is as though the world has me at a disadvantage, knowing who I am, even when I’ve never met them. I have empathy for Celebrities.
Anyway, I’m sitting here, cleaning my lap-top when a tall man walks up my ramp. I answer the door. He calls me by name and I say hi, like I’ve known him forever, worried that it might be a relative I should invite in to sit a spell, take his boots off.
It happened about a year ago that a bonus brother in law dropped by and I let him in and had to ask my daughter in a very quiet voice, who the heck he was.
So, back to the story. I say Hi. He asks where my husband is and I tell him he is at the store.
I’m frantically looking him up and down. Boots. Black motorcycle vest, no designs or symbols, blue do-rag, and a greying beard.
He says he’ll find him later and turns to leave. Then I think, if I get a picture of him on his bike, I won’t have to play witness and describe him but I was too slow and he got away. I retold myself his description adding yellow leather gloves that stop at his wrists.
Darling Husband comes home and I assail him with a description of this guest who was so fast and quiet I didn’t even hear his bike. He says it is Dennis.
I say, oh, Dennis. Well, if he had been parked at a coffee bar reading a book I would have known him.
I think my husband is beginning to realize that if he really did take his hat off and put on different clothes I really wouldn’t know him until he spoke.
Thanks for visiting again, leave a message, especially if you know the name of this goofy disorder in my mind.