I.
My father ran track in high school. He took his team to wins and national competitions. He was a hero with a rebellious front, a defiant kid with long hair and a beard that screamed, “fuck you”. He sprinted and ran distance, played football and smoked pot, outsmarted his brothers and felt suffocated by his life.
My father set his future on becoming an architect when he was in third grade. He always had the safety net of a definite dream to keep him focused. His drive to be an architect wasn’t pervasive, nor was it his guiding light. The marquee in his head displayed “I have to get out of here”, nothing more than that kept him going.
My father had a thyroid gland problem, Osgood Slatters, shin splints, a pinched nerve in his back, and high blood pressure. He is the one that sends his mother money and presents on the appropriate dates. He handles multibillion-dollar deals like putting a schoolyard fights to rest. He snores and talks in a made up language in his sleep.
My father rests on our scuffed leather couch, letting the History Channel seep into his dreams. He knows everything about history, even if it is just marginal knowledge that the event existed. He takes deep breaths and sorts out his words with even-tempered justice. He uses anecdotes and phrases that flatter his intelligence. He is far more well-read than people initially expect.
My father’s aortic valve is three quarters smaller than the average heart tube should be. This means his blood flow is restricted to a smaller stream, renders his body weakened with a lack of constantly flowing nutrients.
II.
I went exploring in my parents’ drawers and I found an eighth of weed. I always assumed it was my father’s. He was the one I suspected had a slight cocaine problem and smoked as well. I checked on that eighth of weed everyday for two weeks. One day it moved and I didn’t go looking for it. I peered into my mother’s bedside table a week ago and found it there.
Things have shifted now. She is the secret stoner and he is the old man. Falling asleep periodically because his body’s trying to get an urgent message across. He is the one that postponed a simple meeting with a doctor for a year because he was too scared to face his next challenge.
III.
My father is someone and everyone and no one. He’s proud and he learns. He has seen his own father used and abused, his own brothers failing at life, his own daughter grappling with invisible demons he knows all-too-well he could fix, were he me. My father doesn’t usually make things about him. And I usually don’t make things about him either. Usually.
i thought this thing was gone, but remy saved me. or rather, my subconscious forsight to send it to someone before i put it out here for public berating saved me.
