My Grandfather left yesterday. Papa Bear, Hoop, and Big Bit have been sick for two days. The house process is going painfully slow. Work is swamped. On top of all my other duties, I've been given the exciting task of interviewing candidates for a position similar to mine. That wasn't sarcasm. I really am excited, once I get past the nervousness. It's been chaotic.
Life keeps coming in slivers, slices just big enough to tease me with. The only break I get is during the commute to work, which provides ample time to think. Thank God for that at least! There's a story that's been rolling around in my head for years. I think about it now while driving. It's still bare, at best. It doesn't have a middle or an end. The fragments hardly form a spine. But today it's all I have to offer...
A few thoughts and pretty words. Enjoy.
My father had two laughs.
One was genuine. The other was genuinely cruel. Although the first laugh rarely made an appearance, I lived for it. It fed me, a comfort from the starvation caused by the second. I gauged my life and my actions by which laugh I received, a seed of paranoia that took over twenty years to dig out. As an adult, people have spoken more freely about my Father. They say he was happy once. They say it was the drugs, the alcohol, or the jail time that rotted his heart. I think he was just able to hide it better.
People take pride in how well they know the people they love. As hard as it is to believe, it's really no different when dealing with people you hate or hate-to-love too. The distinction is in what kind of pride you get from it. Knowing someone you hate better than anyone else is not something you care to share. My father was not a good man. He wasn't kind, or sane, or healthy. But I knew him, through and through. People tried to predict him. They gave reason to his actions. They guessed, and I knew. Sadly, I was proud of that.