Like everyone else I guess, I got a complex relationship with my old man. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe it is as simple as we pretend it is. I don’t know.
In a world where I’m like to cut you off at the knees soon as look at you, my old man gets a free ride. He’s done his share of stupid, selfish things, but I don’t have a bone to pick with him. He’s given his love freely, and he’s been what I always wanted to be in a man.
Whatever that means.
My own road as a parent has been a revelation. Of the wildest, deepest, most disturbing joy. Watching the way my own shortcomings bind and wound my child. The illusion of happiness, and happiness itself.
Grief and bitterness.
In the end it’s all indistinguishable from love.