Did you miss Part I

My seat was always in the middle, to the right of my mother and the left of my father, and I ate with my head down. There was no sense looking at my parents because they would not be looking at me. Even if they had, I hated looking at Mom. There’s something so horrifying about seeing a person whose spirit has been broken. Dinnertime was all the proof I needed to know that Mom was an empty shell, barely recognizable as a person.

There was always the attempt at conversation. I wanted so badly to be part of my father’s life, his day, his job. And though I knew he wouldn’t respond, I always tried.

“Dad?”

“Mmpph,” he’d reply, his mouth stuffed with food.

“How was work today?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” His voice sounded edgy, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I pushed harder. After all, he was my father and I loved him. “What happened? Was it a bad day?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” The rising volume warned me, like a growling bear. He was in a bad mood just like all the other nights. And just like all those other nights, my attempts had failed. But I never learned, and I never stopped trying. Surely, if anyone could cheer Dad up after a bad day, I could. Cautiously, I approached again.

“Dad…”

“SHUT UP! Can’t you see I’m trying to eat?! Why do you keep bothering me? Just sit there and let me eat in peace!”

Silence. Only the silverware hitting the plates dared to make a sound. Why did he always yell at me like that? What did I do wrong? I must have been a bad son. A good son wouldn’t have bothered his father during dinner. A good son would have eaten his food and kept quiet.

Lost time – Part III tomorrow…

Every evening it was the same. Home from work, Dad would sit in his chair and read the paper while Mom fixed supper in the kitchen. I always played on the floor, pushing cars around my father’s feet. No words, no conversation, not even a smile. Just three people existing. But to me, those 45 minutes before supper were heaven! Though other families may have felt awkward in the silence, the silence brought me peace. It was the only time of the day that I felt like we were a real family. I was so happy to be around my father that I hardly noticed that the newspaper he was reading was worth more of his time that I was. Things like that would be realized many years later. For now, I was a young boy wanting love from his father, and I’d take it any way I could get it, even if it was served up with a side of newsprint.

Even at my young age I had learned to take advantage of these moments, because I knew what happened once they were over. We would sit down to eat, and the atmosphere would turn tense. Mom would sit at one end, head down and shoulders hunched forward, as if someone had reached into her chest and pulled the life right out of her. Curled up in the corner, waiting for the next blow, Mom was a trapped animal, not sure what to do and knowing that whatever she did wouldn’t be right. Her desire and courage to fight had long since vanished.

Opposite my mother, my dad would be shoveling food into his mouth. Sitting upright and attacking the food in front of him, he seemed so powerful, like a hunter enjoying the spoils of victory. I remember fearing him, and then feeling so guilty because I had. After all, he was my father and I loved him. Didn’t the Bible say something about love covering a multitude of sins? I never really understood all the problems within my family as a child, and when something exploded, the love inside me was always enough to overcome it. The hatred and bitterness didn’t bear its evil fruit until I got older and understood. Sometimes I wish that I had never grown up, never understood.

Lost time – Part II tomorrow…