Wistful Thinking

Once upon a time I had a father who doted upon me. He scowled at my guy friends and trusted a scant few of them. Even then the only ones he trusted were the hardcore metrosexual boys that he was thoroughly convinced were gay. But I loved him for it. I knew he did it out of love. He was firmer than my mom about what time I had to be home at night. I was angry with him for it, but that anger ebbed away because I knew he did it for the sake of paternal concern.

I knew when to avoid the basement because I could hear the monotonous grunts exchanged between father and son as they slathered their throats with beer and shared gratified silence with a new episode of Monster Garage playing on the television. I viewed their relationship through sentimental eyes. I felt so privileged to be able to see and understand how they could communicate and understand each other through a series of grunts and not get angry at each other for not verbally conversing as women would in such a situation.

Sometimes I would come home in the morning from a sleepover at a friend's house to see a couple candles extinguished on the table. The dishwasher hadn't been cleaned yet and dishes from a supper for two people still sat in the sink, unclean. The house would be still, and I'd know as I climbed the stairs that my mom and dad were sleeping, deeply and contentedly in their bed after spending a romantic night together. I would smile, conceding them the decency of not pulling an immature face. I felt lucky all of the time because my parents, unlike more than half of the rest of the population, maintained a relationship where they still love each other profoundly.

I always wore my jean-jacket overtop of my tank tops before leaving the house in the summer, because my dad didn't like seeing me leave with cleavage when I was going to meet up with my guy friends. It was always too hot to keep the jean-jacket on, but I owed him that much to leave with it on.

When I turned nineteen he was more lenient towards me in regards to how late I stayed out and what I wore but he became stricter with my boyfriends. I was embarrassed when he potently stared across the table the days I brought them home for dinner. The curt way he questioned and replied set my face blazing with annoyance, but later I was glad to understand that he just looked out for me and didn't want pilfering scum for his daughter. He allowed me to date them, and even opened up enough to invite them over for a beer once in a while if I illustrated a particular liking. He understood that if I cherished my boyfriend that much he owed reason beyond doubt. Dad claimed that he'd at least give them a "chance".

It took him until I was twenty-four to treat me like an adult. That was the year his grandson was born. The grandson that I bore with a man whom I loved dearly enough to marry, and my dad, though suspicious of his intentions at first, had come to accept and care for him too.

Once upon a time I had a father that loved my brother and I enough that he would rather die than have an artificial, insipid relationship with his children. Once upon a time I had a father that couldn't conceive of having an impersonal affiliation with his kids. Once upon a time, my father wasn't the father I have today.

....

Song of the moment: Kanashimi wo Yasashisa Ni by little by little