Dad?
He wasn’t the dad I am. He never said, “I love you.” My sister and I walk into his room in the intensive care unit, and my sister takes one look at Dad burst into tears and leaves the room. I stand by his bedside alongside a shinny pole and the bags with the tubes running into his arms and the flex hose stuck in his mouth and feel nothing.
My sister’s reaction moved me more than his helpless posture, but suddenly I have to say encouraging words that form awkwardly in my mouth and say them as if I care for this callous man. Dad lies next to another man looking a little better off and watches me spend more time than I feel comfortable with letting this stranger, my father, know I suddenly give a shit. Maybe I wanted to, maybe I should have, but he didn’t warrant that affection.
The day my dad severed our connection he did it in real style. He watched me strike out every time at bat and instead of giving encouragement he became another ignorant parent and demonstrated his cruelty by joining in with the bleacher chorus yelling disparaging remarks at me as I stepped up to bat.
The game concluded with my team losing and on the ride home at an intersection he turned to me and showed me how words could cut like a knife saying, “I know why the kids call you fathead.” I looked out the passenger window, and my anger seethed, and with my heart severed in two, the Dark Lord bid me into his tutelage.
To be fair, one time he tried to connect when I was fifteen. One summer’s day he made me a sandwich and gave me a beer to wash it down. He didn’t smile and didn’t say thank you. My dad was a failure, he was sick, and he died a loser.
Happy Father’s Day Dad.
