falling out of love

I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. Sorry that those few minutes you managed to make for me were ruined by the accusing way I looked at you. I’m sorry that you felt the need to look away.

What I wanted most was to say I understand-- that I still love and respect you and that I could never hold any of this against you.

But when I gave you that coffee mug all those years ago, I didn’t buy it because it was the cheapest thing I could find-- I bought it because at the time I believed you were the greatest Dad in the entire world.

I didn’t think about the other fifty mugs on the shelf, each one bearing the exact same words.

But I’ve gotten pretty good at seeing things in context now-- I can see that you’re just another human, that you get stressed and lonely and thrilled and make split second choices without even knowing you’ve made them just like everyone else does.

You’d think that discovering the context of someone would make them more understandable and interesting-- but all it seems to do is make you look so small.

But that’s really all just a part of growing up, right? You find out what sex is, your parents gain new dimensions, and you realize that you won’t be a kid forever.

But the world’s been starting to reveal itself to me in ways id never considered-- with jokes about where prostitutes come from and comments about the excessive amount of melanin in absent fathers--

To be clear I know you’re more than this. You’re more than a statistic or a stereotype-- like I said, I’ve discovered your humanity.

So when someone mentions that everyone’s family seems to be broken these days, I remind myself that we’re different-- that you’re different-- that I know who you are at heart, cocaine be damned. I remember how good you are at chess, how your tone softens when I cry, how you cover up your social fumblings with jokes.

But it’s hard to remember any of these things when I haven’t seen you for a year. When I can’t send you a fathers’ day card because I’m worried you’ll take it the wrong way. When you couldn’t make it to my graduation even though you knew about it a month in advance.

It’s hard to remember you’re the same man who taught me how to eat crawfish and told ghost stories to my friends-- hard to believe you’re any different from the other deadbeat dads when the first word that comes to mind when I hear your name is absent.

So I can tell you how much I love you, how much I admire you and how much I want you to get better.

I can even tell you I forgive you.

But I can’t tell you I understand.