Death, Regret, Relief
Got the call yesterday that my father was in the hospital; he does not have many people left in his life - his brother and his sister passed some years ago; he is the last one in a generation, an ark of memories and ghosts, whole histories of fishtown & philadelphia.
We are not on the best terms. The same hands that held me when I was little, beat me also. Those years when I was little were difficult for him; in a toxic marriage with a woman who didn't love him, chasing a life that was never going to make him happy; he took it out on all of us, and he took it out on himself.
On the nights he didn't drink, he read me The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. These are my memories from before the drinking took over; he would ask me where we left off and I would always say the riddles, because I loved that scene so very much. He would humor me and I would fall asleep to a soft version of his voice, which was so often other times a terrifying drumbeat; a great brass horn from hell.
He didn't recognize me. We haven't talked much, these past 30 years; he doesn't know my children by name, although I see the brilliant ferocious parts of him alive in them. And then he saw the book. The same red leather copy he bought when I was little and that he read to me at night.
His eyes softened. So much relief and regret and I think a little bit of wonder; I am sure he still remembers me as his son, although it has been many years now since I wore that mask.
I sat. We talked about old movies - the samurai flicks and cowboy films and spy movies he raised me on. We talked about my aunt Joan and my uncle Jim, who he misses very much; we held hands. I can't remember the last time we touched. His thoughts turned to those dark days when it was just the two of us and he was a wild, frenzied thing, caught between despair and madness, drinking to numb the anger and the pain.
He apologized. I never expected that. I am a little sad it took so long; that we are saying goodbye, before we ever had a chance for a proper hello.
We are not on the best terms. The same hands that held me when I was little, beat me also. Those years when I was little were difficult for him; in a toxic marriage with a woman who didn't love him, chasing a life that was never going to make him happy; he took it out on all of us, and he took it out on himself.
On the nights he didn't drink, he read me The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. These are my memories from before the drinking took over; he would ask me where we left off and I would always say the riddles, because I loved that scene so very much. He would humor me and I would fall asleep to a soft version of his voice, which was so often other times a terrifying drumbeat; a great brass horn from hell.
He didn't recognize me. We haven't talked much, these past 30 years; he doesn't know my children by name, although I see the brilliant ferocious parts of him alive in them. And then he saw the book. The same red leather copy he bought when I was little and that he read to me at night.
His eyes softened. So much relief and regret and I think a little bit of wonder; I am sure he still remembers me as his son, although it has been many years now since I wore that mask.
I sat. We talked about old movies - the samurai flicks and cowboy films and spy movies he raised me on. We talked about my aunt Joan and my uncle Jim, who he misses very much; we held hands. I can't remember the last time we touched. His thoughts turned to those dark days when it was just the two of us and he was a wild, frenzied thing, caught between despair and madness, drinking to numb the anger and the pain.
He apologized. I never expected that. I am a little sad it took so long; that we are saying goodbye, before we ever had a chance for a proper hello.
41-45, T
