Sitting and waiting

He came into my life at a time when I did not yet realize there was a void. I took his name before I understood the significance; and he became my father. Throughout my younger years, he never missed a baseball game, at least not that I can remember (and I played year around from the age of eleven until I was eighteen). He did not much care for basketball, but he was there, every game he could make, cheering me on, even during the years I was relegated to the end of the bench, without a chance in hell of seeing the floor. Girls were discussed, sex talks had, funny stories shared, and numerous days and nights spent fishing and camping. In fact, looking back on those years, I could not have asked for a better role model.

Throughout our family's many struggles, and my brother’s ever-present sickness, he never disappeared on me, choosing instead to make himself present at all possible times. My friends were his friends, my interests his interests, my goals his goals. Not once did he tell me I was not good enough, that I could not succeed, that the world was above me. He was a rock, a shoulder to laugh and cry on, and my closest friend. I know I did not say it enough, but I cherished ever minute I spent with him. I adored the way he made me feel loved, supported and protected, even when I was not getting the same from other members in the family. I always knew, regardless of what I had said, done, or failed to do, he would be there at the end to prop me up. It was because of this that I thought that if I turned out to be half the man he was, I would be something special. Then one day, my father was no longer half the man he had once been, at least not to me. I wish it happened gradually so that I had had time to come to grips with the rejection, but it did not. He woke up one day and the light of love that once burned so bright for me had been extinguished, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I was finishing college at the time, heading off to further my studies, and while my outward appearance screamed grown man no longer in need of parental coddling, my internal-self was nowhere near that steady. I was lost, moving across the country to a place I had only previously visited, with not so much as a friend to converse with; I needed his love, support and guidance. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay, that he would always be there when needed, but it never came. After my departure, the phone calls went largely unreturned and emails unanswered. As the years passed, the contact became less frequent, the conversations minimal and the visits near nonexistent. There was a begrudging, someone painful graduation venture, a few holiday trips out west, and my wedding, but for the most part, unless it was on my dime, time and initiative, there was nothing. I just kept asking myself, how could the man who dropped me off at college and shed only the second tear I had seen fall from his eye simply forget about my very existence? How could the man who re-set my mangled thumb and let me get back into the game just because he understood how goddamn important it was for me never to quit, simply walk away? I had, as far as I could tell, done nothing, but refused to be the only one willing to give . . . maybe that was my fault. Possibly, had I refused to give up, forced him to talk, sent more emails, or flooded him with letters, he would have come around and once again shown me the side of him I held so close to my heart.

I am now in my early thirties, married, gainfully employed, but still alone and in desperate need of my dad, the man who raised me, to tell me he loves me, to reach out and show that he cares, because without that, I have lost much of the hope that carried me through my childhood – for if someone once so great, and integral to my life is willing to drop me without so much as an explanation, then what hope do I have for the future?

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Art:

Blood streamed from my body like a faucet, splattering haphazardly into puddles on the legal brief scattered beneath me. Her expression was a mismash of disgust, anguish and fear. As she clinched the bed frame for support, she struggled for words, but nothing cognizable emerged, instead came of stream of gasps, mutterings and deep breaths. I laughed curiously, confused by her failure to grasp the meaning behind my masterpiece. “Do you not see it,” I pleaded. . . . “It represents the cost we have paid for this godforsaken profession.” The tears convinced me that she did not. I had missed my audience, and again, I realized that this, art, was not for me.

She is going to blow!!

It is big, it is bad, it is my ankle. . . . This is why adults should not play childish games.

Her morning after

Not so much a follow-up, but a continuation—from the woman’s perspective/voice—of http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html and http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/11/his-morning-after.html. As you can tell, I do not write a woman’s voice much, so I welcome any and all pointers and/or criticisms.

The months of lingering, of semi-intellectual chatter and of making myself ever-present, finally paid off, so why am I riddled with doubt? Why can’t I just revel in my victory, regardless of its ultimate outcome? The fact is that he chose me, not the forty-something’s jockeying relentlessly for his attention, not the other nymphish coeds lusting after his every move and not his wife, who neglects his very presence. He asked me to join him at the table, not the other way around. I think he cares for me, maybe; it wasn’t just my body he wanted to warm him on this winter night, was it? I am better than that, I have everything to offer him in this world, and I am not that kind of woman, I don’t do this; or at least I didn’t. . . . God, he has been awake forever, he is probably wishing that it were somebody else laying next him. Fuck that, I am going to feign sleep for as long as it takes for him to tip his hand—if he gets up in a silent attempt to slip out of this room and back into the life he was so desperately complaining about six hours ago, then I know what I am; but if he puts his head down for just a moment, then he is mine. Please, just rest your head on my shoulder, please. . . .