From my perspective, except for a few moments, I had a good time.

One of the things I said I wanted to tell you about is why I was crying. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time that day.

Let me take a step back. My father and I love each other, but I can’t decide if he has a sick sense of humor or if he really thinks the way he does. As you may have seen before, he sent me a note saying, “Parents give birth to their children, but they do not own them, except in your case.” I’m still dumbfounded about that statement, but, in retrospect, I figured that this was irrelevant. I found it during the moment that I’m about to tell you.

I guess I was avoiding my father; all of this weird dialogue that was going on between us was really irking me. I knew that I couldn’t go to him and ask what his problem was because that would delve him more into a mentality that I still do not understand. We would not get anywhere and I would just have to deal with my self-brooding that I can’t shake in his presence.

I heard that he was in Memphis and I started stressing. All of the joy that was going on inside was draining from me from the tension that was flowing inside just thinking about being around him. So I found myself leaving the suite that we congregated in to find something to do. I found myself helping my cousin by marriage in running errands for the evening’s events. When we returned, I did not even notice my dad. It took me to sit across the room to notice him. He had shrugged off his uniform, something red along with a white dress shirt and red hat, and was wearing a faded t-shirt along with his black pants.

Here is the epiphany: my only living parent is aged. (I say this by avoiding the obvious statement that I have never mentioned here; I ask that nobody speaks of condolences because saying that much is painfully difficult.) He’s about 62 if I’m not mistaken. His bald head shined as the skin of his face was drawn. His lids were heavy over his lined eyes; a jowl had formed under his chin that I had not seen until now. My heart crushed and my impulse of tears fell before I realized it.

Being an overly sensitive person, more than one tear shed about a few things: my losing my father one day, our tension, the way he makes me feel—like I’m pretty useless and not worth the life I’m living—whenever I’m around him, how he dislikes me for some reason that I’ve yet to understand, my anger for him not seeing some of the things that happened to me during my childhood and his not protecting me… So many things.

They fell away.

None of that stuff (and you know what word I really want to say here, but I’ve not said a curse word on this blog) matters. I love my father. He’s got this quiet strength of manhood that attracts women of all ages, and he’s had it all of his life. He’s handsome, charismatic, and he’s all those things that drive me up a wall about men in general.

But I do love him. I cried even more as I left the crowded room unnoticed without one word uttered between us.

Labels: My Writing