Dad

My childhood memories of you are these:

bags under your eyes,

the smell of sweat and oil on your shirt,

the way your eyebrows came together when you told us kids to stop talking and start eating or stop talking and do the dishes,

how you fell asleep watching TV after supper nearly every night.

You were working long hours, I know.

But why didn't you hold me more? Why didn't you get to know me?

I have no memories of you reading to me, even though now, as an adult, I know we share a love of fantasy novels.

I remember that first Christmas you actually picked out gifts for us kids instead of letting Mom do it for you. You got me a drawing book and an origami-making kit. That was the first time I felt you saw me as an individual, recognizing my creativity, and yet I felt sad at the same time, because you didn't know I loved writing rather than visual art, and the origami kit felt too young for me.

I wish you had told me I was beautiful.

I wish you had taken me on father-daughter dates, like my friends' dad did.

I wish you had tried to connect with me on a deep level.

I got my CORE so I could get a hunting license and spend time with you. I wanted to spend time just us two, but J always came with and that felt unfair to me, because I knew when I graduated high school and started working I'd be to busy to hunt but J wouldn't. I knew he'd get lots of alone time with you - and I was right, he did.

Part of being a middle child, I guess.

I've never bemoaned being a middle child; I always felt that you and Mom loved me. But now I've realized that I felt loved by default on account of being your child, not for specifically being me. I wish I had gotten more one-on-one time.

To ask for your attention felt like bothering you. To ask for your attention felt like inconveniencing you, burdening you. You didn't have energy, I know. You were tired, you were working hard for our family, I know. But we were well off. We weren't struggling. I needed my dad. I needed a father who made me feel loved and seen and heard, not a man who made me feel irritating and loud and needy.

I wish you had been less obsessed with budgeting and the mortgage. I wish you had let yourself work less - you could've, and we would've been fine. I wish you had chosen to be in the moment with us more, rather than always working toward the future and coming home bone-tired with nothing left to give.

My knowledge of you now is this:

your eyes lighting up when you see me,

you opening your arms for a hug,

you sending me book suggestions over email,

you looking at me and trying to hide a grin from the rest of the family when we are the only two in on a joke,

you forcing me to watch cheesy hallmark movies when I visit,

you and I fighting over the mouse and keyboard for who gets to blast the next song off the computer,

you asking for my book suggestions,

you saying I alone inherited your good music taste.

I'm so grateful for how we've both grown.

I can't help wishing you'd done so sooner, but I know what you'd say to that - "Same to you, kid!"

You see me now, and that's enough.