A free Sunday, in solitude. Perfectly content and comfortably sunken in a chair at the Fashion Island Barnes & Nobles. I have a stack of technical books to rummage through.
It dawned on me that I haven't made attempts to contact dad these past two weeks. I confess to not missing him either. At church today, paster Peter Dewitt asked the audience to blurt the kill-joys in their lives. The obvious ones included traffic, taxes, work. I wanted to cry "dad" but guilt held my tongue. Someone eventually said parents, which drew chuckles from the crowd. I rarely get to utter the word "parent." It's either mom or dad, never mom and dad.
Dad has been my kill-joy for quite some time. I stopped giving him gifts years ago because he would always criticize one thing or another. "I don't like things made from China." Regarding The Giving Tree, "no one loves that much." A photo of a Hawaiian sunset I took in 2007 and framed for him was critiqued for my artistry (or lack thereof) and later returned to me because he didn't want to display my gifts in his home where the wife would not have any appreciation.
I guess it's apparent: I still harbor some bitterness towards my dad. Punishment for the pain he continues to inflict is absence.
No comments:
Post a Comment