I could tell you some things about my father. I could tell you he tells me how it seemed as though flowers fell from my mouth when I talked to him as a child. I could tell you how he tells me I’ve had his heart since I was born. I could tell you he likes to wonder out loud in front of me, in all seriousness, “what did you do to me? why do i love you so much?” I could tell you he lectures me about life a lot. I could tell you I read him my poetry, and his reaction to it makes me feel as though any other audience doesn’t matter. I could tell you a myriad of things. I could tell you that. But there’s really only one story you need to know about my father.
Weak and lying on a hospital bed, the nurse came in to change his sheets. He looked at her and said, “I can do this. Tend to the patients that need you more.” I swear, the world must have stopped for her. It did for me. I watched. I watched as her features softened, as she drew breath, as her weary face changed in to one of utmost love for a stranger. She regained her composure and went to fix the bed anyways, but my father got up and fought with her. She left, argument lost but with her shoulders feeling a little less heavy than when she came in, I imagine.
I’ve seen this story repeat itself many times. A different character to make an appearance every story, but the reaction always remains the same. The same look that seeks out words that are never enough. I never tire of it.
I don’t think my words will ever do him justice, but I try and will continue to nonetheless. I love you, dad. I hope the way I look at you conveys it, even if my words can’t.