Wishbone
He’s sick.
His heart, I’m sure. But certainly, his body. Frail and thin where once was thick and strong, tall. He had the warmest hands. I used to hold them, thinking cold hands, warm heart. It only occurs to me now, how perfectly he is the opposite. His hands now two palms full of sticks. Dry, lifeless.
They used to create art. Now they create havoc. Or, maybe they always did.
His smoking followed him like a faithful dog. A habit so natural that I was convinced, for so long, that he shit cigarette butts. It kept him from us, and tied like fishing nets to the depression that has wrapped its tumor into his bones. I used to look for him as I was acting or singing my way into a new persona, knowing his seat in the audience was empty. The dust motes from the spot lights filling in his form, a ghost father.
What he’s always been.
In that, he became the architect of my curious desire. Building with his inattention my need to please. My own fixation laying footprints behind me in the sand. My need to grab his attention like the long end of a wishbone. Sought after, rarely achieved. I watch myself hate him as my years paint more of him onto my face.
His weakness pulls from me no sympathy and I watch as every minor drama lands him back in his home. I wonder if he feels at home. I wonder if he cares. I wonder what will finally make me vulnerable. If that is such a thing to want to be. I will never have him as I want him. Vibrant, joyous, real. I have him as trails of smoke, smelling stale as I search.
He is marrow and I lack it in my bones. I don’t know how to fix it, or if I can. Or if I want to. My love for him is wrapped in assuring for his care. It is all I can give and it seems so far from good enough.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:02 pm
You have marrow in your bones, but let it be defined by you and not someone else.
Don’t forget that we often have to give all we can because that’s all we have. And really? That makes it good enough, sometimes.
You do feel love.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:10 pm
Ah, fathers… I’m so sorry, C.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:28 pm
oof. you’ve written beautifully of this search and this ache, but the beauty of the words doesn’t fulfill the need.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:40 pm
Remote father. So totally get that! I think I had to reach my own point, though, that my own father gave what he could, when he could; it was all he knew. Not that it makes it any less of a hurtful, frustrating enigma… Actually, for me, it did.
I am not making any sense right now!
I hope you can reach some sort of peace with it. Sometimes I think the best peace is just admitting there might not ever be peace.
I’ll shut up now.
xoxo
February 9th, 2010 at 8:29 pm
“I watch myself hate him as my years paint more of him onto my face.”
Gave me a shiver. I went over and looked in the mirror after i read that. There she is. Oh, the tragedy and the comedy of her face, my face.
I can not even offer the care, yet. I guess i’ll see when it’s needed if i can.
Maybe he and she did the best they could, but it was damned crappy all the same and i’m not appeased by knowing that.
<3
February 9th, 2010 at 8:33 pm
Very sorry for your struggle. Sometimes we just have to grieve and eventually accept, after many tears, that we didn’t get the kind of father-love, or mother-love, that we deserve. It’s hard but it’s all we have. And then we go on to be our own loving father, or mother, giving ourselves the attention and adoration that we crave. And choosing to surround ourselves with others who will nurture us.
February 9th, 2010 at 8:37 pm
This is so beautifully written. I could feel your pain. I am so sorry.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:09 pm
I love you, my friend.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:38 pm
When I visit my father he is still the dad I know, love, used to hate, the one who can be so mean to my mother, who loves her and stands beside her, and controls her, and I hate watching him slip away. big love.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:50 pm
I didn’t start feeling, really, consciously, these until… well, after. And it broke me more, I think, than feeling them might have before. But it made after so much easier, too. To get through. I’m sorry that you’re questioning and feeling and things can’t just be easy for once. x
February 10th, 2010 at 5:43 am
maybe there is no way to fix it. but your heart, even if he broke it, is big and full of gracious love.
February 10th, 2010 at 7:02 am
I could have written this about my mother. Almost exactly.
February 10th, 2010 at 7:55 am
I’m sorry, Flutter. I’m really sorry.
February 10th, 2010 at 8:12 am
very sorry chica.
February 10th, 2010 at 8:23 am
I was talking to my father yesterday and I noticed my need to get up and move around the room…I’m hardly ever still when I speak to him. Nervous of the pauses and having to fill them with some sort of conversation…when it feels as if I have nothing more to say? I end the conversation with a sigh of relief, take him and reluctantly place him in that place within my heart and close the door until he calls again. I know I love him…but where is this place we have come to? It’s hard to not think that it’s somehow my fault. Since he lives “far away” it easier for me to not examine such things. You write so beautifully about your father…even through the pain. I hope that writing helps heal something and that you can meet him somewhere, be it in love, forgiveness or detachment. Thank you for inspiring me to explore this further in myself too…you are amazing.
February 10th, 2010 at 9:47 am
Ah, Flutter, I understand this very very well right now. Holding you in my heart, love.
February 10th, 2010 at 12:31 pm
your caring is enough. even though it never feels like it. hugs to you….
February 10th, 2010 at 1:33 pm
no, flutter, it’s good enough. it’s better, in fact, than good enough. believe it.
and i’m sorry.
February 10th, 2010 at 3:57 pm
Already, you’re giving more than you received, it has to be enough.
February 10th, 2010 at 5:33 pm
Where have I been all this time you’ve been burning beautiful words onto screens?
You are filled with the richest and most lovely marrow, and you give far more than you seem to have ever received. That is more than enough in many ways.
Love to you.
February 11th, 2010 at 12:08 pm
oh.
this confusion, that pain, our mortality, our wishes, our wants, and reality. it’s hard putting them all together in one room, in one place, in one person.
February 11th, 2010 at 7:06 pm
You rock. You need to write a book. Where is it?
February 12th, 2010 at 3:18 pm
That care you’re giving is so much, so good.
February 12th, 2010 at 3:53 pm
This is straight-up fucking exquisite.
I love you and I’m thinking about you.
February 13th, 2010 at 6:05 am
this is haunting sad and beautiful. i smell smoke. and hope. there’s hope here. you’re only responsible for you. go and do what you are led to do. follow the hope.
February 13th, 2010 at 11:18 am
I see some of this in me. The smoking. The hiding away in the garage when things overwhelm me, or when I just have to step outside of it all and do absolutely nothing of importance.
And yet, I’m missing it . . .
February 13th, 2010 at 11:13 pm
“I watch myself hate him as my years paint more of him onto my face.”
Ouch.
So sadly beautiful.
February 15th, 2010 at 6:51 am
love you, miss
February 15th, 2010 at 8:21 am
You give what you can some days and that just has to be good enough. There is nothing wrong with good enough, it is so much better than nothing at all.
Much love.
February 15th, 2010 at 8:07 pm
The smoking. It was so hard for me to take–to know that even though it wasn’t what she intended or desired, it was THE most important thing in my mother’s life.
February 15th, 2010 at 9:56 pm
My husband chews. He doesn’t seem to understand that cancer is ugly and painful. Not just to him but the rest of us. So sorry you are going through this.
WHen I want inspiration for my own writing, I turn to yours. So eloquent.
February 16th, 2010 at 10:15 am
It never feels like enough, dude, but I swear it is.
February 16th, 2010 at 9:56 pm
oh honey.
oh shit.
February 17th, 2010 at 7:01 am
Beautiful, as always. Thinking of you.
February 22nd, 2010 at 6:53 pm
I like what captain steve says. It’s all we have to give, right? That’s it. You’re giving it all. If you put more out there…well, it wouldn’t be real.
Flutter, dear Flutter, it can’t be easy. I’m sorry for that. The doing or the feeling as though you are coming up short. You are not short. You’re a fricken giraffe.
(You wrote all over this, C. You wrote it – !)
xo
erin
February 26th, 2010 at 8:56 am
you wow me with your compassionate insight.
February 27th, 2010 at 1:35 pm
I know somewhat what this is like, but with a mother, and a different kind of sickness.
Your lovely words, help, right? But still.
But. Still.
I’m wishing for peace for both of you.
February 27th, 2010 at 10:57 pm
I so respect that you’re letting yourself feel what’s really going on, but you’re not pushing yourself to feel more mired down in it than you actually do.
March 1st, 2010 at 6:26 pm
I am afraid my father will die before I can confront him. Up for a road trip?
April 4th, 2010 at 8:06 pm
I am always impressed by how you embrace the honesty of the tragic and terrible — and position yourself clearly (and rightly) above them all. There is so much beauty in your writing, no matter what situation, feeling or complexity you’re experiencing.
With that, I’m really happy to give some news: you’re a Best of the Best 2009 JP. Come on over and read about it. xo