My Father and I
I stand about a foot from the door, as I do every day. It is almost time. I hear his footsteps on the front porch, a slight shuffle-step as he shifts his weight and puts down his bag to fish keys out of his pocket. I can open the door, but that would spoil the surprise. I finally hear the long awaited rattle-click of keys in the lock, and begin to grin as I hear it turn, and see the door open and feel a warm waft of summer air drifting in to mingle with the cool air conditioned space I stand in.
Beneath the crisp, stiff collar of his shirt, and padded suit shoulders, I can see his weary frame begin to droop, weighted down by another day. He looks up and I grin wildly, standing very still and quiet. This is our ritual. I am there every day, yet he never expects it. He breaks into a slow, tired smile. His eyes, slightly reddened by late nights, early mornings and bright screens at the office, light up and crinkle near the edges ever so slightly. He looks so handsome when he smiles like that; a near-laugh. He has bright, white teeth and his shoulders shake as he begins to laugh.
“Hello”, I finally say, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and wrap my arms around him. He is warm like sunshine and still smells like the cologne that wafted around the kitchen at breakfast, lingering long after he had gone that morning. I stoop a little when I hug him, so I can rest my head against his shoulder and bury it into the crook of his neck like I did when I was little. “How was your day?” I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt. He shifts to keep his balance; one hand still holding his bags, the other around me. We stand like that for a few seconds, as we do every time I hug him. I notice his tie has been loosened, and see a tan line just above his collar, like an imprint left by the 9–5 noose of a long, hot week. “Good”, he says, patting me with the free arm. That’s what he usually says, and I still ask how his day was the next day.
Some days, when I ask how his day was- he pauses and says “tough”. He doesn’t need to say anymore. I take his bags from him and walk him to the cool, dark bedroom that he retreats to for a nap.
We do this day after day, and not every day is a good day, but I am always there at the door anyway. Sometimes he is angry with me; upset about something I was supposed to do and didn’t, or annoyed that I didn’t listen to his advice or instruction. I still hug him and ask him how his day was, because that is what we do. On those days, he says nothing, but I still feel an arm around me, and I know that it is to let me know: “I am here. I am tired, and a little angry but it is because I love you.” His silence makes me want to earn his pride, and maintain our persistent meetings at the front door, in calmer times and stormier times.
He eats a late lunch, and I sit with him at the kitchen table to hear his stories as I’m microwaving my dinner. We live on slightly different oscillating wavelengths, but they always align at this point in the day. Silence is his modus operandi, so when he does speak, people listen. I always listen. I listen to the advice, funny stories about work, the snippets of his past or childhood that he tells with a certain light in his eyes. His voice is calm and with an air of delight and humble appreciation of the moment as he jovially recalls a story about buying fish from the market. His grin begins to grow as he remembers how the fish flopped out of his bicycle basket, and he, a young teenager, jumped and bicycled away, terrified of the creature that unexpectedly burst out of its bag and onto the road.
It’s these stories that I crave more than anything: waiting for long drives when it’s just me, him and the great expanse of the highway ahead — storytime. With a gentle, bassy voice he draws me in until I’m grinning at him in anticipation, eyes wide in wonder, eyebrows raised, waiting for the climax of the story. This is the only time he’s animated, being usually so composed and serious that I often urge him to react with more enthusiasm. As he tells stories, I see him relive those moments: I hear the passion as his tone changes; sometimes in excitement; in deep longing and sympathy; or in sheer amusement.
I watch him as he lets out that much anticipated infectious laugh that starts in his belly, deep and ringing through his chest that it makes his shoulders jump when he remembers the funny parts. He can laugh at himself and is amused by his stories as much as I am delighted by them. It’s that casual ability to settle into his humanness that fills me with awe for him. For the man who is able to admit he’s made a mistake, and own up to it in front of his children, without his ego getting in the way. To see the humour in such moments, and be secure enough to narrate an embarrassing story, amused at his own moment of imperfection, is the most endearing.
His stories are rare, but mine are not. Almost the moment he walks across the threshold of the front door, he ceases to belong to the rest of the world and belongs to me. I don’t remember a time I didn’t have something to tell him, or ask him. In the minutes it takes to walk from the door to his bedroom, a stream of words pour out of me — they’ve been dancing on the precipice of my mind, the edge of my tongue, waiting for a delicious few moments of his attention. He stops at the door of his bedroom while I stand there, telling as much of the story as I can fit into the long pause before he politely asks me to leave him alone to take a nap. There is a hint of mischievousness in his eyes as he knows I will try to prolong this moment, pleading for him to let me finish the story. He patiently waits for it to near the end, but I deftly switch subjects and begin another, and he catches on to my game- chuckling at me as he gently closes the door, watching me through the narrowing gap as I flail to convince him to keep it open.
These days, there is no 9-to-5. He has retired, and I am away at University. There is nobody to wait by the door for him every day, and nobody for me to badger when they’re trying to take a nap. Yet, I wait. I wait and I store memories. Stories. I think about him on the bus to work, while grocery shopping, when I’m up late finishing a paper and remember how he, too, would work late nights. I wait and I narrate stories to him in my mind, picturing his reactions (or lack thereof). I picture him telling me Dad jokes out of the blue, breaking the monotony of a stoic disposition to crack a smile.
Finally, I am home for the holidays. I am home because home is wherever he is. Mentally, I rifle through stories on the seven-hour flight home. As I walk out of the airport, I see him hiding behind a pillar. I pretend to look for him, before he steps out, grinning wildly, holding out his arms. Home. I sink into the comfort of his hug and bury my head into the crook of his neck. The familiar smell of his perfume warms something inside me. “Guess what happened last week?” I start, handing him my bag and getting into the car. He smiles. It’s going to be a long, story-filled drive.
