6-4-08 Shaving

I am surprised each morning to find the wide-eyed, slightly moon-y looking fellow in the mirror with the shadow of beard on his face, and he, in his turn, seems perplexed at me finding him here. His questioning eyes watch me warily while I spread white, foamy lather across my chin, until he relaxes into the ritual, and together, we scrape yesterday's growth of hair off my face.

I cannot remember standing beside my father, as the Norman Rockwell-style image might suggest (adorable scamp in wife-beater t-shirt, face covered in shaving cream, peeks from the corner of his eye to see how father, similarly attired, shaves, so passing down the ritual from father to son, ever-thus), while he taught me how to shave. I cannot remember ever doing this, and yet I must have, for here I stand, towel around my waist, stroking my newly shorn chin, thinking of my father, thinking about how we learn to live.

6-2-08 Fathers and Sons

On the subway, the father stands, the son sits. Father says something quietly to the son, and son looks at father from under his bangs with that easy contempt that comes with adolescence, shakes his head as if he is sorry that his father, who helped bring him into the world, is such an unbelievable idiot.

Son opens his sausage bagel sandwich (no egg, no cheese, I can see the ordering process – Father: “You just want sausage? No egg? No cheese?” Son: “Daa-hd! Yes! God!”) and proceeds to deliberately separate the halves that are almost, but not quite completely, cut. His hands are small and delicate, and his father quietly watches, visibly restraining himself from reaching down and doing it for him as his son fumbles, drops half, picks it up, begins again.

12-28-07 hell is other people (booking your air travel)

My dad booked my flight home, and unfortunately he misread the departure time when he bought the ticket. So instead of leaving at 11:45 AM, I left at 11:45 PM and flew all through the night and into the late morning. No exit rows, a middle seat on a completely full flight, and a seat-mate who was, shall we say, large, with a baby on her lap.

I didn't sleep at all, and Dad has to let me book my own tickets from now on, even if he did apologize.

12-26-07 absolution

The sink fills up with dirty water, clogged again, and my father goes out to investigate. My sister suggests that I may have caused the commotion since, yesterday, in preparation for our Christmas dinner, I peeled potatoes directly into the sink and into the garbage disposal, where I thought they’d be taken care of.

Thinking I should confess, and help out the process of fixing the problem, I say to my father as he walks by, “Uhhh, listen, Dad, I think I know why your sink is clogged.”

“No you don’t,” he says, walking away.