The Intrinsic Propensity of My Father
Not once in my 40 years did I ever decide to hate. Not on the coldest night of a particular winter, out of gas in a ’73 Caprice close enough to see the warm lights of my parents house. While smoke billowed from the chimney of the field stone fireplace, I remained in my car, almost too cold to move. This was in the days before the influx of cell phones, mind you. . .not that it would have mattered.
Recent snows had left us with a nice solid layer about two feet thick, and I knew the walk was going to be frigid and difficult. Nevertheless, I exited my car, which had been sitting for roughly 30 minutes now, after pushing it off the road. Anyone that’s ever own a car from the early 70’s can tell you that moving this land yacht was no simple task. At any rate, after a short “warm-up” inside the car, I then headed toward the house. Upon arrival I was chattering away, my teeth actually hurt in a way I had not before known. I entered the house, and was immediately greeted by my dad’s roll of the eyes and sigh of contempt.
This is just a small sampler of the book I am now working on to help quell some of the darkest and deepest thoughts and anger that I have felt, and still feel, towards my father. I am working hard so that I might find a bit of forgiveness before both he and I pass.