Catch

My relationship with my parents is a game of catch.
When I was small I would run up to them with a ball in my hand, asking them to throw me a ball of attention or validation or acknowledgement I was more than the wallpaper in my bedroom or the faucet on the kitchen sink.
Sometimes, they would.
Sometimes they would take the ball in their hand and wind up their arm only to be distracted by the phone
or the TV
or someone else
or something more interesting than wallpaper 
than a kitchen sink.
But I would still run after them, as children do. Knowing I would likely be disappointed. Hoping for the brief moments of sporadic 
attention
validation
affection
Hoping against proof that I was more than an object in the living room to vacuum around.

My mother’s parents were too drunk to play catch with her when she was small, she did not learn how.
My father only wanted to play when it was by his rules so I memorized the plays, forgoing my own preferences or judgments.

I am not small anymore, but I still find myself handing them a ball and asking them to throw it to me. Maybe one day they will learn how. Maybe one day I will not have to hand them the ball and ask to play. Maybe that is the childish daydream of a bright eyed kitchen sink, baseball in outstretched hand.