I am my father’s child. I am in his image. I, myself, mirror his exact composure. I trust only him – I always had. He would forever hear my rants and raves, never complaining a bit about them. And now I spoke of another harangue, once again finding myself sitting with my dad. And indeed, I do sit there – on my parent’s bed – and he sits there – on a chair’s footstool – and we both talk quietly. Mostly I talk, and he listens with a calm demeanor; then he speaks, and I respond with a facial look of allowance, and acceptance.
Patience.
My day was horrible, I tell him through a choked throat. Mom and I got into a fight, and we argued, and yelled, and disagreed: leaving me the only choice but to run away. I ran away from home, across the hayfield, down the natural gully, and into a strange wheat field.. and sat.
For three hours.
I further my story slowly, preceding it carefully, and straining to do the said due to my interrupting sobs. They are abrupt, my cries, and I cannot stop them to save my life. So I just sit there – as does daddy – and we both wait for them to quiet: for me to quiet. And as we remain in our lone figures, I tear tissues. My nails rip and tear at the breakable fabric – creating shreds and mounds of a white and snowy heap. When I do, finally, speak again my fingers work faster, in a crazy and mad way. My father watches me in silence as I create a snowstorm.
I had a bad thought, I tell him suddenly, and without prior emotion. My head raises and my black ringlets stir to caress my cheek – almost as if in ill-fated attempt to tease me into a better mood. Fingers leaving the tissues, I momentarily shift them to snatch at the disobedient, annoying hair.
From his perch, my father stands. He does so slowly – as if aged and old. First he pushes himself from the stool, and then he stays half crouched, his knees creaking in protest. Finally, he positions himself to his full height, and crosses the room in two steps.
What is it, honey? he asks slightly and quietly – so fatherly. His hand rises cautiously and halts, but then falls gently upon my hunched back. I flinch at the touch, surprised at the sudden contact. A shiver attacks my spine.
Gray eyes downcast, I stare at the bedspread below me, and pick at an unraveled thread – I need to do something with my hands… It gathers quickly in between my fingers, slipping and sliding – its hue the color of a well-aged red wine. My eyes twitch over it, and back to the pile of Kleenexes. I add the twine to the flurried mound, and grimace at the sight: its like blood on snow – an imperfection ruining the exact perfection. My grin broadens at the irony: am I the snow? The bad thought, the blood? Me the innocent tissues? And the bloody thread the ruining aspect?
I quickly lick ugly grin away.
My stomach does a flip-flop as my father continues to look at me. But I stare helplessly in descent, not wanting so stay further. I’ve already said too much, and my mind is screaming: no… you can’t tell him! Not yet! NO! Please…please, don’t tell him.
With those thoughts, my brow puckers, and I scratch at a sudden, hot itch on my neck.
What I don’t know yet is whether I will be able to continue. Can I speak again? Can I muster the strength to part my mouth in truthful speech? Tears are falling once more, traveling down the paths they know so well. I wipe at them in angry swipes, but it does no good: my hands are too wet. So I tip my head to the ceiling, and watch the dark fan blades whirl in perfect, and synchronized motion. I still don’t speak, content in staying silent, and letting my tears dry.
I can feel my father’s breath upon my head, tickling the slight follicles. The sound – and the feel – reassures me, and calms me somehow. Without a thought, I lean against him – my alabaster cheeks pink with emotion.
My mouth opens, and a small whimper tumbles out. It was an attempt at speech – but it had failed – crashed and burned. Though, my dad hears the sound, and nods in silent encouragement. His hand squeezes gently on my back: he wants me to continue. But I can’t. I can’t do this! I can’t speak… I don’t want to…! And I can’t even breathe, so how can I talk? My throat closes up, and that small meaningless whimper is followed by deep, gut-wrenching sobs, and heaving cries.
His shirt is quickly soaked, turning from a light, happy blue, to a darkened and sadder violet. The only sound in the room is my crying, and the continuing twirl of fan blades. But then I think I hear my dad crying, too – and I begin to cry even harder.
I know, he says in a broken tone: his voice thick.
That is what gave me the sudden courage – a vague realization that I needed to tell my daddy what I had to say. He understood that I couldn’t manage to say what I needed to, but he also knew that I had to say it. He had to know, and I had to tell. Sudden trust enveloped around me like a well-fitted glove, and it tightened, allowing myself to feel strength from it’s abrupt, and swift feel. So with a shaky breath, I gathered the small courage that I had, and finally looked up to my dad.
And on that sticky summer evening, through my tears and cries, I opened my mouth, and finally spoke to my daddy.
I have a secret, I say.
