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A Writers dilemma

I need to get into the shed! I focused my undivided attention on picking the Master lock with my pin. Fifteen minutes, twenty, forty, over an hour gone. The sun shimmered against my back. The heat began to burn my skin as layers of sweat dripped down my collar bone. I patiently scrubbed my pin back and forth. Pop goes the weasel."Got'cha!" I exclaimed. I think of locks as an entertaining puzzle. There's always a new trick to crack. I spent my night in my garage as I deconstructed a Lever handled lock, reinforced the mounting spring, then rebuilt it to its original form.

On Sunday I wore a flower patterned dress, pump heels, and a purse. Recently this has been the norm. This feminist pin up lady staring back in the mirror is so unlike my sporty nature. I had finished work early and we went to visit my mother in Mexicali. I suggested seeing a therapist next month, that is when I return from San Diego. Our relationship is neutral due to a gap of space. A lot is left unsaid about our abusive past. I'm sick of avoiding the touchy subject. As much as we try to convince ourselves were fine, we both know it's a comforting lie. As if, for a brief moment we shared a connection of telepathy since she didn't question my reasons on why I think we need therapy. She simply nodded her head in agreement.
She knew.

I had a driving lecture from my grandmother; it was the first time that I drove from the border across Calexico, then to my home. I parked in the drive way. Later that day we went to El Centro's DMV and picked up a copy of the 2015 drivers handbook. I'll be looking forward to receiving my license!

I called my father to wish him a happy fathers day. It saddens me to call him to congratulate this man who has never been a part of my life. Calling him by the name "Dad" feels odd. Martin is a stranger who I haven't seen in over eight years. I'm not upset, rather happy that he lives a happy life with his wife and two children. Martin asked me if I'd want to dine out to have lunch. I agreed but felt confused at his out of the blue offering. Why would he want to see his daughter in the first place? I tried to write a letter to my father, but I had an awful case of writers block. After all, there isn't much to say. Instead I wrote a letter to whom I do consider a father, my Uncle Jaime. My writers block cured as I scribbled away.

~Yours Truly,