Brevity

May 12, 2014. In line at my local grocery store, a young boy, around twelve years old, stands with his father. I've never seen this child but I can see he is upset, his face is distorted and red. "I hate you and I hope you die!" he screams at his gray-haired father. His father does not react, but simply stares ahead, letting the words bounce off. Instantly anger starts in my toes, and rises up until my face could melt steel. How dare he speak to his father that way, I thought. I ground my teeth and my hands became stone fists.

December 25, 2003. I was twelve. Christmas morning in Florida doesn't feel like Christmas morning. Dad has been gone, doing God knows what for the past week. I miss him. Mom left us three months ago. I don't miss her though. An elderly lady who sits in her recliner and watched old western movies calls herself my babysitter. John Wayne is routine, in the past few months that my father had left me here. I don't know why dad has abandoned me. After breakfast Dad calls. "How is your morning going buddy?" his voice shakes. "Remember when I told you I would be picking you up today and we would open presents? We are going to have to wait a few more days." I stopped listening. I had to wait for presents? On Christmas? My eyes water and a rush of anger hits me. "I hate you and I hope you die!" I shout into the phone. Dad goes silent. The thought of what his face might have looked like at that moment haunts me.

May 12, 2004, I was twelve. The hospital smells of disinfectant. The elevator ride up to Dad's room takes forever. As I step into the ICU the cries from my family is frightening. My father has been protecting me from his failing health. Grandma is holding Dad's hand. Grandpa stares out the window as if he was expecting to see Dad out there. The only important person in my life is gone. Even the sounds of Aunt Shannon sobbing cannot drown out my thoughts of what I said. "I hate you and I hope you die" It plays back in my head until I touch Dad's arm. Thinking stops. Coldness like this is unfamiliar. My heart becomes filled with lead. Dad won't hear me say sorry. He will never know how desperately sorry I am. It plays again "I hate you and I hope you die". How dare I speak to my father that way?

May 12, 2014, my anger continues, focusing all the self-hate built up over ten years on this unknowing boy. I wish he could see what I have seen. Onlookers surely felt the heat radiating from my body.

Who am I mad at?

I never meant what I said. Did this young boy mean what he said? Would the boy act differently if he knew what I know? Would I have acted differently?

Who am I mad at?

As I leave the store, I spot the boy and his father in the parking lot. They are helping each other load their goods into a car. The boy is no longer upset, his face is bright and I can see his gleaming smile. Before they climb into their car, the boy cheerfully hugs his father.

My heart burns up. Why can't I hug my father? Sadness turns quickly back to anger. Why can't I hug my father? Why can't I help my father load groceries into our car? Why can't I tell my Dad sorry? My jealousy turns into desperation. Why can't I hug my father?

The drive home fills my head with images of everything my Dad has missed. I let myself slip into sorrow. If I had not condemned my father to death would he have been there to give me a hug after I scored my first touchdown? Would he have laughed at me after I cut myself shaving for the first time? Would he have seen me graduate high school? Would he have saluted me when I graduated basic training? Emptiness in these memories will never be filled. These questions will never be answered.
It took me a long time to forgive the young boy.