My dad was proud of me. I don’t doubt that even though I question most things I interpret about him. Sometimes I felt he was proud of me to a fault though, only seeing my accomplishments, as if my performance somehow made up for our lack of a deep relationship.
It’s not that we didn’t try. We just couldn’t speak the same language on many levels… Except when it came to the very basics. We silently expressed to one another that we could be nurturing if it came down to the fundamentals, like if one of us was physically sick or hurt. Maybe that’s why it was too painful to go deeper. We saw each other as two vulnerable beings who needed help and we just couldn’t bare it beyond the basics.
You can imagine the satisfaction I felt then when I bought him food after he left the hospital. Not only did he eat all of it, accepting my care, but he also made a point to tell me he liked the rotisserie chicken.
It breaks my heart with sweetness and innocence, even if it had to be at arm’s-length – the simplest interaction between two people, who seem so complex, but can be brought together by a store bought cooked chicken.
And I miss that.