His temper exploded and threw me against the wall. I was
pinned there staring into his red ready-to-burst-with-tears eyes. He
wasn't himself any longer, but he looked like my dad. I hated him not
for the explosion but because I still felt small and childish. I was
small and childish.
He let go and turned away
embarrassed by the outburst and anger. He promised himself no more, but
biology and upbringing got in the way sometimes. I cried partly because I
was scared and partly because guilt was stronger than anger. A couple
seconds of violently kinetic silence, and we returned to our supper. The
meal passed and so did the silence.
He cam to me
crying one night, or I found him upstairs crying. He had spoken to his
mother, and she revealed the true nature of his conception: to keep his
alcoholic father around. He looked just like I had, and I hated him then
too because it was easier than empathy. He was a small child.
He
visited California because his sister was sick and dying. My husband
and I took the train to San Jose to meet him for the afternoon. We
exchanged hugs, and I saw those same tears behind those same brown eyes.
We both stayed silent, but this time it was the silence of empathy and
understanding -- the kind of silence that is needed in times of death
and decay by are rarely given. Then, we ate lunch, visited my aunt, and
watched a crappy movie. He dropped us at the train station amidst more
silence and contemplation.
"I love you, Jason," he said as I exited. I've heard those words many times before, but this time I understood them.
I love you too, dad.
Labels: anger, dad, death, family, tears, the space between, violence
