Love Story

by HelluvaGirl

I remembered this really strange new thing that happened twice within the past several months within the total of 33 years – I felt like calling my father. No reason. No actual topic to cover, either.

But I’d call him still. He’d be surprised and fairly lost after realising I called because I only wanted to chat.

Of course, I wouldn’t exactly know what to say, so he’d go on through the same topics every time: work, health and the existential running out of time.

I would just listen and mumble in agreement every now and then. I guess this is quite new to both of us. I’m sure he’d feel very proud after the conversations and would probably go to tell mother matter-of-factly.

I would call him with one wish, really: to ask why does it have to be like this, everything in life, damn it. To cry and be weak, and comforted maybe. His life story is even more dramatic than its broken representation but I suspect he would give in to the urge of using the proper tone (face on, moralist, detached schizo bullshit do one – preach another) and I would lose him.

But what do I know, maybe he’d bleed his heart out and we would have a conversation of a lifetime? I am terrified of it. When you’re preserving boundaries for as long as you remember, it’s easy to get too close by inexperienced stumbling.

Of course, I would not utter a word. I would talk to him after hanging up instead.

This is something he’d play for me when I was a kid:

Those were the scarce moments I’d almost cease hating him. I’d wish he didn’t stop to play the piano; I’d wish he didn’t stop because those were the only moments I’d see something lucid in him, and in me, too. As if our darkness would start dissolving. I would sit quietly on the sofa, with him looking away, and I think my face would look less like ice. I would barely breathe not to whisk the moment away. But then the composition would be over.