I have done two things really
well in my life: I have loved my wife and loved New Mexico. They aren't the only two things I've done well, but they are the things I've done best, things without question, hesitation or deviation, things I will never regret.
And there are things I have done badly, too many things, but I have been thinking about one in particular.
I have not been a very good son and now that my father is 90 years old, I am no better at it than I ever was. I call him but I feel no need to go and visit; I catch myself in gestures that I recognize as his and promise myself I will never to do that again. Our lives are far away from each other and always have been, even when we lived in the same house.
Sometimes I think my mother intended it that way. I was born when she was 19 years old.
She gave birth to me and then befriended me and held on. A therapist once told me that a boy should not have to be his mother's friend, that being a son was enough. But that is what I was and perhaps it is most of what I was saving myself from when I went away and stayed away; but I was saving myself from my father too.
I was born shortly before Christmas when he was 21 years old and a damaged boy-man limping out of the wreckage of World War II. He says my birth made him happy and I believe him, but he never seemed to know how to be a father to me, never seemed to know quite what was supposed to happen between us. So I never learned. I watched him with his own father but they seemed as clueless as my father and me about what to do. Mainly the men in my family did not want to disappoint each other - grandfather (whose own father committed suicide when his son was seven months old), father (who went to war and never quite came home or really wanted to), son (who has resisted both war and suicide) - and fear of disappointment is a powerful thing but it is not love.
My mother always insisted that I respect my father, but she did not insist that I love him. When I lost my respect for him and he for me, there was not much left. We have tried. For years, especially in the seven years since my mother's death, my father and I have attempted to rescue love from years of mutual disappointment. We have not been very successful so far and we are running out of time. I am not sure we have the right tools. I am not even sure such tools exist.
So here we are.
He is a 90-year-old veteran of World War II who has spent much of his life embracing the war because he has never been sure how to embrace his children or anything else. It is the one thing he has done really well. So war is the beloved companion of his old age.
And I am 1,600 miles away in my beloved New Mexico with my beloved wife, determined not to be the prisoner of anybody's war, especially his.
Several hours away to the northwest I have one son; several hours to the southwest I have another. I embrace them; I love them; I am proud of them. There are no conditions. I do all of these things simply because I am their father and they are my sons. And I know they love me, too, though sometimes I fear I have disappointed them in some way. It is a fear I never want them to know. It is the third thing I want to do really well.
And there are things I have done badly, too many things, but I have been thinking about one in particular.
I have not been a very good son and now that my father is 90 years old, I am no better at it than I ever was. I call him but I feel no need to go and visit; I catch myself in gestures that I recognize as his and promise myself I will never to do that again. Our lives are far away from each other and always have been, even when we lived in the same house.
Sometimes I think my mother intended it that way. I was born when she was 19 years old.
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| The Veteran |
I was born shortly before Christmas when he was 21 years old and a damaged boy-man limping out of the wreckage of World War II. He says my birth made him happy and I believe him, but he never seemed to know how to be a father to me, never seemed to know quite what was supposed to happen between us. So I never learned. I watched him with his own father but they seemed as clueless as my father and me about what to do. Mainly the men in my family did not want to disappoint each other - grandfather (whose own father committed suicide when his son was seven months old), father (who went to war and never quite came home or really wanted to), son (who has resisted both war and suicide) - and fear of disappointment is a powerful thing but it is not love.
My mother always insisted that I respect my father, but she did not insist that I love him. When I lost my respect for him and he for me, there was not much left. We have tried. For years, especially in the seven years since my mother's death, my father and I have attempted to rescue love from years of mutual disappointment. We have not been very successful so far and we are running out of time. I am not sure we have the right tools. I am not even sure such tools exist.
So here we are.
He is a 90-year-old veteran of World War II who has spent much of his life embracing the war because he has never been sure how to embrace his children or anything else. It is the one thing he has done really well. So war is the beloved companion of his old age.
And I am 1,600 miles away in my beloved New Mexico with my beloved wife, determined not to be the prisoner of anybody's war, especially his.
Several hours away to the northwest I have one son; several hours to the southwest I have another. I embrace them; I love them; I am proud of them. There are no conditions. I do all of these things simply because I am their father and they are my sons. And I know they love me, too, though sometimes I fear I have disappointed them in some way. It is a fear I never want them to know. It is the third thing I want to do really well.
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| Father and Sons |
Very well said, so much in ten paragraphs!
ReplyDeletevery moving...many of us from this generation have similar threads.
ReplyDeleteRichard