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I
had not seen my father in many months when he picked me up at
the train station. He said he was well, but his movements spoke
otherwise. Slow and deliberate, skin sagging at the bends. Do
you want to go straight back to the house?, he asked. I told
him I did--the train ride had tired me out. He was trying to
avoid the catches of his household. Slowly he drove the car
down the street. He said he would love to spend an afternoon
in the library we passed on the way. Every morning he went past
that library in the park to the train station and always remarked
how nice it would be to waste away an afternoon there. But he
never had and probably never would. And it would not really
matter in a larger scheme of things if he did go there or hundreds
of other places he meant to go--those were just options and
daydreams. He put his hand on the gear shift; I noticed his
small, pale wrist. It looked like mine. Genetics granted, our
bodies had a strong resemblance. And those similarities went
deeper than that, to esthetics and tastes. It was frightening
and embarrassing being cut from the same cloth. We did argue
and disagree; nature versus nurture had had their way with me.
And all this existed in three inches of bare wrist on his right
arm.
Talk to me, he said, you are so quiet--don't you want to talk
about politics or new movies? I told him I would speak when
I had something to say; my words sounded unintentionally abrupt
and rude. We rode in the car as the wind rushed over the car,
the tires sped along the asphalt, and the radio news murmured
quietly. The mercy and fear of foresight was on my mind--relieved
to see how time would line my face and equally as frightened.
And I sat as a reminder to my father what time had done with
his body. Past, present, future came to a point in that car.
I wanted the silence and moment to be golden, but he probably
thought I hated him. I asked how his work was doing.
Your mother and I miss you around the house, he said. I try
to visit when I can, I replied. But I was lying--I visited when
I was forced. He said that he was my age once, that he understood.
The car pulled into the driveway. I'm actually very jealous
of you and your life, he said, but visit more often and tell
me what you are doing. I told him I could try.
| Matthew
Patrick, March 2001 |
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