Francolis and Carl had to almost bodily force me to stay seated at the table so they could clean up. I find it curious how frustrated Carl seems to be getting over navigating a kitchen several times smaller than the one he has long been used to. And of course I still have to direct him as to where to put the clean and dry dishes and utensils. But it is good to have them both here with me. Though they still feel a bit like trespassers. Invaders. But I'm sure this will change in a matter of days. Strange, because now I am the one in charge. We are in my house. Or in my father's house. Why do I always think of this place as belonging to my father, and not to me, given he's been dead already the last couple of years. But this isn't really my house either. I was always an accessory, an afterthought, perhaps? But that is decidedly unfair to think of a man who has always loved me, his son unconditionally. And of course he always loved me as his son. But I still ask myself this question, which often I refuse to entertain, but here it is again. Has Dad ever known me as a person apart from himself? As an individual, and this is a question that so many ask of their parents. He gave me a good home, a good life and a sense of being loved and accepted. Well, accepted on his terms. What would he make of my two friends here, sharing the space with me. He would approve. My father loved people. He never turned anyone away. Tonight I will be sleeping in his bedroom....
No comments:
Post a Comment