On scattered tired evenings when I’ve had my fill of life at the moment, (a baccalaureate with nothing much to show for it, working three jobs I could have gotten without a degree), my dad can sense my uneasiness. Most episodes like this I stay away from him, knowing that he can see right through any normalcy I try to feign. A direct look in the eye, a “what’s going on?” will bring me to tears instantly; my dad has always had this power, he can bring me to spill the existential haunts I try to keep at a calm ebb in my mind; a neurotic tide, really.
There are some things I keep to myself, of course, topics I’d like to spare him from; for example, the fact that my birth control is making me feel like Natalie Portman in Black Swan doesn’t usually make it into the conversation. What does bubble up, though, are some of the ironic woes that all humans share; common to each of us, and yet fully capable of making an individual feel entirely alone; an effective demon, really. The pain of not achieving anything I thought I would by twenty-five is the apparition that shows up most lately; sometimes on days of lighter-fare, we dream about my future together.
My dad is good with all of this; incredible, actually.
On these sacred evenings, from his worn spot on the couch, he’ll tell me about his time at Berkeley; a semester stint at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. He’ll tell me about a pizza parlor there in town, where he and his friends used to hangout, and I’ll picture him: late 80’s gear, laughing and chatting over some arcade games, so vibrantly young and full of wonder—my dad, perhaps even more so than his children, brimming with deep-seated ambition.
He was an incredibly handsome kid with a charming smile that could make even the most confident person stutter; my mom says he was shy and incredibly respectful, a rascally old-soul even then. He was popular, always; a wrestler who looked like a real life A.C. Slater. Most times, I imagine him this way.
As he tells me about Berkeley, I see his life playing-out before him; as if on film. He reminds me how there wasn’t a wrestling team—how he truly struggled with that; how he could only talk to family once a week on a collect call, if he was lucky. The strain of it all seeps into every word, and all I can think of is the lost time between then and now. He would be upset if he knew I wrote this, if he knew I even thought of it…
but I do wonder, if we weren’t born; if I wasn’t born, who could my dad have been?
This isn’t a death wish. There is nothing I’d take back about being his daughter and him my father, which is an honor I treasure; this is just a wondering about a math-wiz with the looks of a movie star, and hard-learned resolve from growing up too fast. He could’ve been so many people in this life, and I can’t help but to imagine him happier.
This time I have now to yearn and stretch through my cocoon, to struggle out of it, he didn’t have. Like me, he came home from college, defeated for one reason or another; worked at a restaurant as a temporary gig. Shortly after, I was born, leaving him a nineteen-year-old father; like so many of his ancestors before—like his father.
And, I wonder how this makes him feel on his own tired nights; I wonder if those nights ever really end, or if they keep him as regular company.
The other day I came home from work; likely in a depressed mood, likely not wanting to speak to anyone. I walked into the garage and saw my dad with a cardboard box sitting on the ground, reading a handwritten letter on lined paper. Just like his father, he squints; stubbornly pulling the paper farther from his eyes, at a stale-mate with his age.
The lettering looks like a teenager wrote it: pencil, curved letters, no format.
My curiosity perks, and I walk over and ask what he’s doing. In all his beautiful honesty, he shares this letter and the cardboard box with me. As his eyes graze each word, there is a glint and he’s right back there; just a kid. The box is filled to the brim with notes and trinkets from the past; some he remembers, some now have no meaning. He shares every piece with me, embarrassing or not.
If I want to know, he tells.
I find a ring in the bottom of the box; thin and silver, with a small black stone. To my surprise, he doesn’t remember who it belonged to. I can’t tell if he’s conveniently lying; my mom is home and I can only imagine if an ex-girlfriend’s ring showed up— but I don’t care; he says I can have it if I’d like, and I accept.
I wear it now, this small mystery of my father’s youth; it sits, every day, every moment with me: a small time-capsule upon my finger.