On the day he died, my father was angry at me. He had been mad at me for as long as I could remember, but that morning, it was different. A different kind of anger. Like lava stirring at the lip of a volcano, deceptive, slow, but burning wildly.
He did not curse or make a derogatory comment nor grant in disapproval. He hadn’t beaten me up in a while, he couldn’t. He just sat, like always, in his foyer chair completely still, silent as a corpse. I carried him there from the bed. As I placed him down, I noticed his lower lip quivering, dangling like a bell, chipped.
Four weeks earlier he had stubbornly refused to stay in hospital any longer. He could still get his way then. Now as I stood back and considered him, I thought that his disease had finally worn him down to a point of silence. To this day I regret the morbid satisfaction I got out of that thought. I truly and honestly do regret it. It is the one and only thing I regret about his death. A son should not get any thrills seeing his own father give up on anything. Not covertly and most definitely not overtly, it is more sinful.
Four weeks earlier he had stubbornly refused to stay in hospital any longer. He could still get his way then. Now as I stood back and considered him, I thought that his disease had finally worn him down to a point of silence. To this day I regret the morbid satisfaction I got out of that thought. I truly and honestly do regret it. It is the one and only thing I regret about his death. A son should not get any thrills seeing his own father give up on anything. Not covertly and most definitely not overtly, it is more sinful.
I was wrong though, he had not given up. In fact he did not care about the illness that had slowly chipped away at his body like a river over a rock. His mind was on something else, someone else. Me. He was mad at me. So deeply, so passionately that he just eyeballed me in angry silence. Big yellow disease-laden eyeballs just gawking at me, the last of their lives draining out by the minute but still seeing no good in me. In retrospect, I think he looked scary. Raised cheeks, the battle scars of a virus that doesn’t know when to quit. Eyeballs at the end of their tethers, sockets wide. His skin was patchy, scratched to oblivion. Cracked lips that sagged so much his lower incisors were always visible. It was a sad sight, something had taken my father’s countenance and replaced it with a stranger’s.
Sad it was, but I was not sorry. He knew I wasn’t and that’s what made him mad. The nerve father! How dare you demand that I be sorry? Why didn’t you take it like the real man you always wanted me to be? Is that why you hated me? Is that why? Won’t your spirit tell me? I know why father, I know why you despised me so much. It is because you knew it. You knew that you were not a real man either, and you detested the fact that I had figured it out.
(To Be Contd.)
