Process

My father sits in an upholstered computer chair, his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the armrest. He's asleep. On the screen, the scoreboards for two MLB games underway. He wakes up when I walk in. "Why don't you go rest on the couch?" I ask, since he looks uncomfortable. "No, I'm fine here," he says. "I can turn on the game for you," I say. "No, I can see the scores here," he says. He's been in that chair since 5:30 this morning, and it's the same every day. He sits and waits for any human activity to play out in his sight. If it's the children, he pounces on them--barking orders, hammering on his windows and shaking his fingers at them. They've come to hate him. If it's my mother, he turns to her like a neglected pet, cross at her absences, jealous of her friendships. My mother has begun to turn away from him, and he has begun to tell me about this. I see an opportunity here, and am building up my courage to do some straight talk. I fear he wants more to shut me down than I want to help him get unstuck.

The children are keeping summer journals--documenting the shapes of idle days. The entries are packed with careful accounts of pancakes eaten and chapters read--and quarrels between them, and a united front against my father. Today they ran around to the front of Dad's house and rang the doorbell--I know this from journal snooping. They did it twice, which is probably why what could have remained their little secret became an elaborate apology note. I watch them run over to deliver the written apologies, and I hope to God he accepts, as an adult, and lets them off the hook. He does, unpredictably. He wanders over later to wish us all goodnight--another unusual step. He waits for them to jump up and kiss him, as we used to as children. They need to be prompted. I compensate with a big smile and chatter.

I took this photo twenty years ago. My father's sister and her husband, both from a village on the border of Norway and Sweden. I love it, though I cut her feet off.