Father Dearest

from December Twenty Second, Two Thousand and Seven

There seems to be an interesting sort of feeling that goes on in the entirety of this place. Despite the fact that I stand behind the register, not really being able to move, I keep a watchful eye on my father. He is the most fascinating individual here in the restaurant. His eyes are always moving. You have to really look for those blue crystals that he uses to look out at the world with. They lay hidden beneath the folds of his lids, buried under thick bush brows, that he has a bad habit of trimming with the scissors. I tell him that they will just get worse that way.

I often wonder what he is thinking about. What exactly goes on in that mind of his? For forty years my father has been in this country. He came here in the seventies with little money in his pocket, wanting a better existence, better life, for the family he was to create with my mother. I sometimes think that he lets his memory manifest, giving himself a moment to just breath and remember. Does he think about the first day he landed here in America? About the men who stole his car and he chased after them to get his papers back? About his mother? And father? About the drama going on in the family with my brother? His heart? But the breathe comes short. It's back to reality. Back to the grind of running, working, burning.

His hands, old and scarred, are, wrinkled yet smooth. Veins pop slightly from his boning hands, fingers continually moving. Before I learned to drive, I would watch my father during the car ride home. He always keeps one hand on the stick. Constantly his fingers moved, as if pointing to something. Whenever I asked what it was he was doing, he had no idea what I was talking about; seems that he was having an important conversation in his head to the point where he didnt even remember I was in the car. His fingers dance across his heart as well. I worry when I see him do that. The movement must be subconscious, more than likely a constant reminder that he is not as young as he used to be. When a man that you care for deeply tells your brother to call an ambulance, when he never goes to the doctor unless really pushed, it puts some thing into perspective for you.

When that happened, daddy took a moment to look at everything in the house that we owned. The movement was slow, thoughtful, old eyes examining things he took for granted, if he did. That year, for the first time, he helped us decorate the tree. My mother and I looked at one another.

I had never been so frightened in my life.