Reflections

I remember blue eyes, pale as sky, almost lashless, piercing and unsearchable.

Empty promises.  Weak-limbed hugs.

When our mother met him in Woodstock, half way between D.C. and Lexington, he would buy a six pack for the drive home.  We three in the backseat, huddled like spinster sisters, like refugees.

Donoughts, Sweet Sixteens, from the 7-11.  Either steaks or jarred pasta sauce for dinner.

And I never told him, how much I hated every minute, how stifled I felt, how much of my life was passing me by back at home... because God knows I wasn't living any kind of life in Alexandria one weekend a month.  Movies, ballet recitals, soccer games, sock hops, sleepovers...  in the grand scheme of things, were they anything?  They were everything, in comparison.

And I don't feel callous.  I waited.  Sweet Jesus, I waited to feel the guilt, the sorrow, the pain.  After he's gone, I thought, it will all come down and I will fall beneath the weight.  Yet, I still mourn only my lost time with friends, weekends surrendered...

What is it with we the survivors?  We bite our lips and bide our time... waiting... waiting for the reckoning. Am I sorry that he died?  Do I miss him?  I miss what never transpired.

My father was an impossible man.  His death has been incomprehensible.

I only think of him when I make mistakes.  I worry that my parenting is sub par.  I worry that I do not possess enough humility.  I worry that I drink too much.  My legacy.  It is such.

Thin skin, big ears, thick thighs, short temper, quick judgement... I am not without parts of him.

It is the part of him that he never gave anyone that I am missing.