My father has never been the most expressive of people. At 6', he's 240lbs worth of life experiences, challenges, and lessons. 240lbs of reasons for his way of being. And that's just how it's always been. I'm told he was once much more lively in his earlier years of parenting, but I was too young to remember such things. With all of the Polaroids I've rifled through, I've no reason to believe otherwise, and can only assume such is true. My younger brother being his carbon copy both physically and in personality trait, I find myself trying to reverse engineer my father through him. Because there are some things about this sibling of mine that intrigues, if not worries, me- but that is for another time and another post.
.JPG)
A few years ago, the Fourth of July came upon my family the same way it always seemed to- slowly, invisibly, until at once it pounced from behind a curtain of negligence. And as it always did, the play went through it's normal procession of acts and drama. My mother wanting one thing, my father the other. My older brother never seeming to get holidays off, supposedly because his manager sucks ( which is mostly true ), but I think more honestly he just forgets to ask off. My younger brother so absentmindedly off in his own realm plans never reach his ears until he's seated in the backseat of my mothers Van, headphones around his neck and his gaze equal parts perplexed and indifferent. We drove off to grab some fast food together. In-n-out burger I believe. For my family this was quite a treat, because we hardly even went out for birthdays. Or for anything. This made no sense to my peers, and at the time made no sense to me either. I mean, it wasn't like we couldn't afford it or anything. My dad provided for my family exceedingly well with all the hard work he put in, and still continues to put in to this day. And my mother no different. But I guess we were just some frugal people, so we didn't. My dad always insisted on never spending money. Because "you never know". Our preparations for future possible tragedies led by my father bordering paranoia ( which must be where I get it from ). The line was long, and the food was good, so with that my mother was satisfied with what we got out of the day and brought us all back home. My younger brother went off, headphones still on his head, upstairs with his leftover soda cup silently. My father poured himself a glass of minute maid and burrowed back into his room behind a locked door. My mother hopped into the shower after flicking on her t.v. My older brother popped his head into the door just long enough to yell to the far corners of the house he made plans with some friends, and then left again. And what did I do? I did what I always did on nights that didn't pass quite as quickly as I wanted them to. I hopped on my bike, popped in my headphones, and pedaled my way through the darkness with no sense of direction. And I was very content with this.
A few hours and many miles later I found myself seated on the rails of a bridge that hung above a small creek. There I put some things into perspective and spent some time thinking as waters gushed and plopped onto the smooth faced rocks on either side of it and the summer wind rustled leaf laden branches. My father and I, we had never had much of a relationship, as I've put some explanation about in other posts. But at this point in my life I'd come to realize what benefit one might yield in the years ahead of me. Especially with how the relationship he and my mother had was declining. As manipulative as it sounds, if I could manage to get an inside on the slow moving ordeal, then I could also have that much more of a hand in maintaining things where they were. Making sure a divorce never came. Or even providing for myself a better support system so that customs of senior year, though pricey, can be enjoyed and willingly provided for. Or, if nothing else, at least to attempt to figure my father out. He had always intrigued me in all of his ambiguity. I knew all about my mother- she was like an open book. You ask, and she will answer. But my father? You'd be lucky if he even grounded the question. Or gave you an answer that was even relatively comprehensible for one who does not speak in his "language".
*crickets began their ringing*
Some time later, I finally decided to give things a chance, and attempted to close the gap between myself and my dad. Before heading back I sent him a long well-drafted message asking if it was at all possible for us ( him, my brother and myself ) to still "maybe do something tonight?" To my surprise, though at first fictitiously reluctant, he humored me and just like that, I popped smoke and bolted back home.
All the lights in the house were off. My mother's door was closed, a sign that she'd signed out for the day. Once in doors the smell of "outside" lodged into my shirt wafted up to my nostrils as I gingerly closed the back door. The darkness seemed tangible, enveloping every fixture, corner, table, chair, shelf and wall. Upstairs flashes of blue spread itself against the wall opposite it and lapped at the blackness. Silently, without flipping a single light, I gathered my sibling and tinder-ly descended over the creaky stairs as darkness furthered it's advances in his absence. My father's door clicked and swung open slowly the way it always seemed to and without a word we hopped into his jeep. The house seemed so grim and black as the jeep we boarded hummed off down the alley and then across town to some land plots.
The car ride was silent save the swinging of the keys in the ignition against the console and the whir of tires on asphalt. My little brother sat silently in the back seat, eyes searching for something in the darkness that filled behind my seat with his headphones fit snug over his ears. My dad's gaze never broke from the road, and he hardly made a sound beyond that of his habitual throat clearing ( which he always seemed to do, especially as a cadence to prelude him saying something, but in this instance he remained silent ). I'm not sure if I expected, or maybe even hoped to meet one of their gazes. If I'd have anything worth saying if they asked what I wanted or why I was scanning them. But after this quick survey, I pasted my eyes back to black and flashing night outside the right passenger window.
We pulled up to a flood-light-lit fenced in, acre wide ( at the least ) lot lined with firework shops near the entrance and littered with roman candle carcasses, burnt remnants of others, and smiling locals with their families. On the way my father had made a stop by the bank to grab some money for us, and once at the firework place he sent my brother and I out to pick out the firework package we'd like to shoot off. He had an odd calm to him. The smiling, light hearted kind of calm you get when you're happy for no reason at all and just can't shake it. The kind of smile you might get when you're hanging out with your significant other, and the two of you aren't doing anything- anything at all- and are...whimsically content. That's the best word for it. He seemed very content. And this carried through all the explosions, fires, and yips of approval we ignited as the night carried on. A few "mortar shells" and roman candles did find their way onto my brother and I's skin but it was of little importance. For the first time in a long time, I managed to fully invest not only in my father, but also my brother, with whom relations had always been shaky. I used to do cruel things to him in my formative years and to this day the scars present on his body and mind.
I remember at one point my brother and ran out into the middle of the firing grounds, and we soaked in the world around us as we both looked up. And despite my fathers prior over-paranoid warnings, he joined us, and we all just stood there. Looking up at the flashing, glittering lances and crackly spectacles. Two brothers. One father. One family. It was the first time we'd ever been content with each other in a very long time.
The ride back was yet another silent one. They always were with my father. But words weren't withheld in fear of reprimand or discomfort. Rather, we had nothing to say. Smiling silently to ourselves while street lights buzzed by, orange and infrequent. Little brother was asleep by then, head and shoulder nestled against the car door. Smiling to himself with headphones clasped over his ears. My father's smile slight but genuine, and aimed out into the night ahead. Somewhat apprehensive, as if in his mind lay thoughts of him searching for something and not being quite sure he'd found it quite yet. And mine? I smiled at the prospect of seeing their own. Knowing that they were happy, I was happy, WE were happy, and nothing could take it away from us. And with that, I turned my eyes back ahead into unpredictable night and let the hum of the tires against the asphalt lull me to sleep.
A few years ago, the Fourth of July came upon my family the same way it always seemed to- slowly, invisibly, until at once it pounced from behind a curtain of negligence. And as it always did, the play went through it's normal procession of acts and drama. My mother wanting one thing, my father the other. My older brother never seeming to get holidays off, supposedly because his manager sucks ( which is mostly true ), but I think more honestly he just forgets to ask off. My younger brother so absentmindedly off in his own realm plans never reach his ears until he's seated in the backseat of my mothers Van, headphones around his neck and his gaze equal parts perplexed and indifferent. We drove off to grab some fast food together. In-n-out burger I believe. For my family this was quite a treat, because we hardly even went out for birthdays. Or for anything. This made no sense to my peers, and at the time made no sense to me either. I mean, it wasn't like we couldn't afford it or anything. My dad provided for my family exceedingly well with all the hard work he put in, and still continues to put in to this day. And my mother no different. But I guess we were just some frugal people, so we didn't. My dad always insisted on never spending money. Because "you never know". Our preparations for future possible tragedies led by my father bordering paranoia ( which must be where I get it from ). The line was long, and the food was good, so with that my mother was satisfied with what we got out of the day and brought us all back home. My younger brother went off, headphones still on his head, upstairs with his leftover soda cup silently. My father poured himself a glass of minute maid and burrowed back into his room behind a locked door. My mother hopped into the shower after flicking on her t.v. My older brother popped his head into the door just long enough to yell to the far corners of the house he made plans with some friends, and then left again. And what did I do? I did what I always did on nights that didn't pass quite as quickly as I wanted them to. I hopped on my bike, popped in my headphones, and pedaled my way through the darkness with no sense of direction. And I was very content with this.
A few hours and many miles later I found myself seated on the rails of a bridge that hung above a small creek. There I put some things into perspective and spent some time thinking as waters gushed and plopped onto the smooth faced rocks on either side of it and the summer wind rustled leaf laden branches. My father and I, we had never had much of a relationship, as I've put some explanation about in other posts. But at this point in my life I'd come to realize what benefit one might yield in the years ahead of me. Especially with how the relationship he and my mother had was declining. As manipulative as it sounds, if I could manage to get an inside on the slow moving ordeal, then I could also have that much more of a hand in maintaining things where they were. Making sure a divorce never came. Or even providing for myself a better support system so that customs of senior year, though pricey, can be enjoyed and willingly provided for. Or, if nothing else, at least to attempt to figure my father out. He had always intrigued me in all of his ambiguity. I knew all about my mother- she was like an open book. You ask, and she will answer. But my father? You'd be lucky if he even grounded the question. Or gave you an answer that was even relatively comprehensible for one who does not speak in his "language".
*crickets began their ringing*
Some time later, I finally decided to give things a chance, and attempted to close the gap between myself and my dad. Before heading back I sent him a long well-drafted message asking if it was at all possible for us ( him, my brother and myself ) to still "maybe do something tonight?" To my surprise, though at first fictitiously reluctant, he humored me and just like that, I popped smoke and bolted back home.
All the lights in the house were off. My mother's door was closed, a sign that she'd signed out for the day. Once in doors the smell of "outside" lodged into my shirt wafted up to my nostrils as I gingerly closed the back door. The darkness seemed tangible, enveloping every fixture, corner, table, chair, shelf and wall. Upstairs flashes of blue spread itself against the wall opposite it and lapped at the blackness. Silently, without flipping a single light, I gathered my sibling and tinder-ly descended over the creaky stairs as darkness furthered it's advances in his absence. My father's door clicked and swung open slowly the way it always seemed to and without a word we hopped into his jeep. The house seemed so grim and black as the jeep we boarded hummed off down the alley and then across town to some land plots.
The car ride was silent save the swinging of the keys in the ignition against the console and the whir of tires on asphalt. My little brother sat silently in the back seat, eyes searching for something in the darkness that filled behind my seat with his headphones fit snug over his ears. My dad's gaze never broke from the road, and he hardly made a sound beyond that of his habitual throat clearing ( which he always seemed to do, especially as a cadence to prelude him saying something, but in this instance he remained silent ). I'm not sure if I expected, or maybe even hoped to meet one of their gazes. If I'd have anything worth saying if they asked what I wanted or why I was scanning them. But after this quick survey, I pasted my eyes back to black and flashing night outside the right passenger window.
We pulled up to a flood-light-lit fenced in, acre wide ( at the least ) lot lined with firework shops near the entrance and littered with roman candle carcasses, burnt remnants of others, and smiling locals with their families. On the way my father had made a stop by the bank to grab some money for us, and once at the firework place he sent my brother and I out to pick out the firework package we'd like to shoot off. He had an odd calm to him. The smiling, light hearted kind of calm you get when you're happy for no reason at all and just can't shake it. The kind of smile you might get when you're hanging out with your significant other, and the two of you aren't doing anything- anything at all- and are...whimsically content. That's the best word for it. He seemed very content. And this carried through all the explosions, fires, and yips of approval we ignited as the night carried on. A few "mortar shells" and roman candles did find their way onto my brother and I's skin but it was of little importance. For the first time in a long time, I managed to fully invest not only in my father, but also my brother, with whom relations had always been shaky. I used to do cruel things to him in my formative years and to this day the scars present on his body and mind.
I remember at one point my brother and ran out into the middle of the firing grounds, and we soaked in the world around us as we both looked up. And despite my fathers prior over-paranoid warnings, he joined us, and we all just stood there. Looking up at the flashing, glittering lances and crackly spectacles. Two brothers. One father. One family. It was the first time we'd ever been content with each other in a very long time.
The ride back was yet another silent one. They always were with my father. But words weren't withheld in fear of reprimand or discomfort. Rather, we had nothing to say. Smiling silently to ourselves while street lights buzzed by, orange and infrequent. Little brother was asleep by then, head and shoulder nestled against the car door. Smiling to himself with headphones clasped over his ears. My father's smile slight but genuine, and aimed out into the night ahead. Somewhat apprehensive, as if in his mind lay thoughts of him searching for something and not being quite sure he'd found it quite yet. And mine? I smiled at the prospect of seeing their own. Knowing that they were happy, I was happy, WE were happy, and nothing could take it away from us. And with that, I turned my eyes back ahead into unpredictable night and let the hum of the tires against the asphalt lull me to sleep.
Comments
Post a Comment