A Father…

There’s a difference between a father and a dad. I’ve thought this for years. A dad, was one whose best was good enough, a father, maybe not much more than a donor, one whose best could just never measure up, or make up for so much hurt, not that he tried to make up for anything, after mom divorced him, after I had my own children and decided not to have a relationship of any kind with him – no, I wouldn’t allow it, didn’t give him the chance. I needed to protect my kids, and my self. Do I regret it? No, but it doesn’t make his death easier, or less sad, after all, he was a human being, and he was still my father.

I thought when this day came I might even feel some sort of relief, sad as that is to say, but this is not what I felt when my brother, David called tonight to tell me our father had died. Far from it. I wanted to suppress what I was feeling, but that only made me want to scream, as I choked back the sobs that so desperately needed escape. I realized that my want of emotional indifference was self preservation, to feel the sadness was, on some level, a disloyalty to me, to my mom, my sister and my brothers. Of course, the real disloyalty would be to deny myself the sorrow, the reality, the truth. Sometimes, even after twenty six years, truth takes the form of a simple phone call about a father.