(no subject)
The sun braved dusty blinds and a thick plane of glass to light the living room up. A feint musty smell of dogs filled the air, but only for the visitor without that inane tolerance one builds up subconsciously over time. My knuckles were bleeding down to my fingertips. I hadn't punched the sidewalk, so much as I lashed my knuckles along it with a measured force to break the skin and send an urgent message to the brain stating, "FUCK ME".
I was now in the bathroom, washing my hands off in the off-colored sink, second hand in a second hand house on a second hand street. It was pocked with use. Well, not use, I guess- But more of a proximity to prior poor craftsmanship. There was a bit of paint from the wall nestled into the finish as well as other imperfections not necessarily created by washing hands or brushing teeth. I always felt so stupid cleaning up the wounds I'd inflict on myself when she hurt me.
"At least you know you'll have me around for another few months, McGee."
The sentence was a seed of comfort that aptly wrought roots of grief through all the parts of my head that mattered. The last thing I needed to hear from Dad was a statement that openly advertised is terminal state. It was tough enough being young and stupid and dealing with a naive girlfriend shitting on my heart and barking at my outrage like a dog angry at the parent of a kid it just maimed, but getting reminded that my pillar was crumbling in a few was a bit much.
After cleaning my hands as best I could, I walked briskly past Dad and Diane and into my bedroom. Not really that, but a library with a computer attached to a cheap drawing desk and a deflated air mattress close by. I gave up a few stern, ugly tears as silently as possible... Then waited a few minutes for my eyes to whiten and un-puff... All the while, I could only imagine what my father felt.
No.
I won't imagine.
His only wish for me was to be happy.
Cliche, right?
But genuine.
I let him know that evening that not only was I unhappy but I was also lost, my heart was broke and my best friend, brother and father were only with me for a few months longer then they were gonna be dead.
I'm certain he felt a profound helplessness in that moment. A kind that I have only tasted in fractions within the hardships of mine own life. As he always did though, he handled it with the grace and compassion only my father could.
Silence, but with a look in the eyes that offered a cozy respite for my troubles.
I think I left to go drive and cool off. I don't remember, to be honest.
We never had another conversation.
I've wrote about it many times by now, I'm sure.
He died a few days later.
He died knowing that I was about as far from his wish he had for me, as possible.
I'll always come back to this. To him. To nothing. Till I am nothing, too.
I was now in the bathroom, washing my hands off in the off-colored sink, second hand in a second hand house on a second hand street. It was pocked with use. Well, not use, I guess- But more of a proximity to prior poor craftsmanship. There was a bit of paint from the wall nestled into the finish as well as other imperfections not necessarily created by washing hands or brushing teeth. I always felt so stupid cleaning up the wounds I'd inflict on myself when she hurt me.
"At least you know you'll have me around for another few months, McGee."
The sentence was a seed of comfort that aptly wrought roots of grief through all the parts of my head that mattered. The last thing I needed to hear from Dad was a statement that openly advertised is terminal state. It was tough enough being young and stupid and dealing with a naive girlfriend shitting on my heart and barking at my outrage like a dog angry at the parent of a kid it just maimed, but getting reminded that my pillar was crumbling in a few was a bit much.
After cleaning my hands as best I could, I walked briskly past Dad and Diane and into my bedroom. Not really that, but a library with a computer attached to a cheap drawing desk and a deflated air mattress close by. I gave up a few stern, ugly tears as silently as possible... Then waited a few minutes for my eyes to whiten and un-puff... All the while, I could only imagine what my father felt.
No.
I won't imagine.
His only wish for me was to be happy.
Cliche, right?
But genuine.
I let him know that evening that not only was I unhappy but I was also lost, my heart was broke and my best friend, brother and father were only with me for a few months longer then they were gonna be dead.
I'm certain he felt a profound helplessness in that moment. A kind that I have only tasted in fractions within the hardships of mine own life. As he always did though, he handled it with the grace and compassion only my father could.
Silence, but with a look in the eyes that offered a cozy respite for my troubles.
I think I left to go drive and cool off. I don't remember, to be honest.
We never had another conversation.
I've wrote about it many times by now, I'm sure.
He died a few days later.
He died knowing that I was about as far from his wish he had for me, as possible.
I'll always come back to this. To him. To nothing. Till I am nothing, too.