It happens the third Sunday of each June. Each year, at this time, fathers are celebrated because a woman by the name of Sonora cared about her daddy that much.
She thinks all fathers need recognition?
Clearly Miss Sonora would think otherwise had she ever met me.
Where do I start? The beginning, perhaps.
I’m quite uncertain as to when the exact time I began to lose faith in my own father was.
I do know that by the time I married Silver, I despised the man’s being. Oh, he’d say I was the favorite, but I know for a fact that he merely spewed bullshit.
Was there ever a time when I cared for the man? Perhaps. My problem is that I can’t remember that time. Who knows. Maybe I imagined it, as some kind of coping mechanism with my lot in life.
In time, I suppose it became less effective. When control of the family business was passed on to me, that illusion broke.
Was that what the rest of my life was going to become? Was that all I could see my children looking forward to?
Work had become such a priority, and such a time-consumer. It became so bad, well, I missed the birth of my eldest child.
That poor boy. It took me almost my entire life to throw off the family yoke, and what did I see?
I saw not a child before me, and not one in the throes of adolescence.
No, what I saw before me was a grown man. That same grown man before me now.
The one dragging me to the concession stand.
“Come on, Dad! What do you want to snack on before the movie starts?”
I hear Mister Rotter chuckling behind me. Perhaps the boy’s show of enthusiasm amuses him. Does he not know my exact plight?
He served under me for some time, before I extended a hand to him to throw that life past us. Even so, and even after all the times I’ve spoken to him, the true extent of my fears is likely not known.
My fear is that the hatred I have for my own parents, may soon begin to manifest within my children towards me.
I can tell it’s already happening, in a sense. My daughter, she hates me for so many reasons.
To be fair, the teen years can’t be smooth sailing for anyone. Not that I can remember too clearly. I exited that stage of life years ago.
But if she finds out what I did for much of my life, will she hate me for that? Will the both of my kids?
My son seems perfectly fine with me. But that could be because I never told him. And I never intend to.
“Hey, Dad. We might be here a while. Can you go find seats for us in the theater?”
I can only imagine how much the boy would despise me, if he knew what caused me to be absent in his childhood. Ironic, considering one of the times I managed to talk to him involved him wanting to do my job.
There’s no reason to want to throw one’s life away like that.
It’s funny, though. A few years ago, I brought in a fortune from a dark, unpleasant warehouse. And now? Now I make a living in the same movie theater I currently sit in.
Yet, somehow I like this better. Instead of drug cartels and selling guns, now there’s tuning off-sounding instruments and setting up stages.
And there’s watching the occasional movie, like what I’m doing now.
True, the life of luxury is gone, but I can live without all of that.
At least, that’s my hope, anyway. Though I wish to never reveal the inner workings I was once a part of, what about everything else?
Exactly when will the family’s demons come to be in the next generation? Not if, when. My own mother fell victim to them, as did my brother Bill. But my children?
I experienced the horrors as a son, and as a brother. Soon, the day will come when I must see them again, this time as a father.
But maybe I’ve gotten lucky. Maybe their generation was spared. Still, I don’t think I deserve to be celebrated on this day.
Why call myself a father, when for the past twenty years I’ve barely been one. Hopefully I still have time to turn things around?
“Sinbad had to go to the men’s room. Hope you don’t mind I got one of their specials? Couldn’t really make up my mind.”
I see my grown son sit next to me, handing me popcorn like he’s done this his whole life. Then I hear him go on about the movie we’re about to watch, one about emotions.
Does he not realize what he’s up against? That in time, the past will rear its ugly head and drag him down?
All I want is to be able to have him live a happy life. Or at least a happier one than I have. But is that even possible at this point? Was I too late in attempting to change the course of history?
“Dad? Why are you crying?”
(This is a WordPress only post)