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happy father's day.
Sunday, June 21, 2009 2:08 PM
Plot twist: I'm writing about your dad instead of mine.


I remember the night you asked me to meet your father. He'd been somewhat of an enigma to me, as he was notorious for disappearing for days and days at a time for business. Of all the thousands of nights that summer that I spent curled up between your sheets listening to you play your guitar, he never once happened upon us. There was no sneaking, there was no deception--you assured me that he wouldn't have cared, had he been there, he was just always too busy to notice.
I wore your favorite dress that night, the one that was tied to your suggestible wrists by the loose threads around the bodice. I wanted you to be proud of me, a piece to show off to your father that you admired from afar. I knew his opinion mattered to you, and I wanted him to think that you'd done well. I painted my eyes and lips with shaking hands in anticipation for a call that would never come.
Hours passed--from six, when you said you'd pick me up; seven, when I called you; eight, when you still hadn't called me back; eleven, when your sister called to ask where we were; and four in the morning, when I stared into a makeshift sunrise and let myself be pulled into the horizon. What's in a lie, lover? I can handle rejection, but your promises hung around me like paper stars tied to the ceiling fan with long strands of yarn.
The next night, you phoned as usual, and I played along. It wasn't until much later that I found out that your dad never came home that night--he'd found someone on the side of the road to take home, and her house seemed far more intriguing than his own son to whom he'd sworn that particular night. I washed away my anticipation and joy in a shower of frozen water, letting it cage me in and hold me there. I ached for you and I still do, but I wonder about how often you've lied in your lifetime.
I developed resentment for your father that night, because from then on, we carried on with our casual affair. You never brought him up again, though I spent the same nights in the same bedclothes, soothed by yet another rendition of "Asthenia." After the summer faded, so did I, and I was nothing to write to him about. A friend of yours drove through Clarksdale to visit and happened upon the almost-extinct occasion of family dinner with all pawns in place. She met your father and I never heard from you again.
All of that to say this: today, I drove by your house. I watched you mow the lawn as I crept by, until I realized that your parking spot was empty and your bedroom light blown out. He has your broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair. At fifty-three, he still holds your commanding, attractive presence--two rival Roman gods left to spar in the ruins of the Bolivar railroad station. In that moment, I wanted to turn on the left blinker just one more time. I wanted to embrace your father, to tell him that I was sorry. I imagine that his chin would rest atop my head like yours used to and he'd breathe in my shampoo and perfume. He'd wonder why we never met, and I'd explain that genetics are cruel--not only does he have your eyes, your smile, your frame, he's got your way with broken promises, too. But to be honest and reasonable, I clenched white knuckles against the steering wheel and drove past. He continued mowing the lawn with no idea who was behind the wheel of the car that used to park in his driveway every night last summer. I continued driving by in that car, wondering if he'd have loved me too.
I took the long way home, the unpaved drive from the highway to my home that used to be yours. It's funny how things work out sometimes. I hope you call him today from Caohoma county. He can't help what he passed down to you and you damn well aren't in a position to blame him for it.

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2 Comments:

Blogger cb said...

Wow! This is fantastic. I'm going to have to come back to this after I get off work tonight. So much to talk about.

June 21, 2009 at 6:41 PM  
Blogger anachronisma said...

Thank you. I'm excited to hear it.

June 21, 2009 at 9:02 PM  

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