There is no real guide to burying the evil SOB known as your father. With his death, we experienced a peace, a silence that had never existed for us.
There was no yelling. There was no arguments. There was no drinking. There was nothing but silence as I sat in his comfy, but well-lived in recliner he would always sit in when he watched those dumb game shows after work.
Yet, I missed him.
Without my father, there was no sarcastic humor. No challenges. No lessons about masculinity from a man who was still figuring it out himself.
Yet, I ignored him.
I hated him for being there. Not for being my father, but being him -the kind of person he was. He could have been so much more. Yet, he chose to be average. He chose to complain about work when he was at home and complain about home when he was at work. Nothing seemed to be right. I would never amount to any day and all of us would be lucky to be him.
Yet, still his blood runs through my veins. If he had never existed, I wouldn’t.
As I sit in this recliner that definitely needs to be thrown away, I sit and wonder: Am I doomed to the same fate? Will my future son hate me just as much as I hated him? Will I even care?