This is from Paris, in 2014. Look how happy, how in love.
In film, in digital, dark people are always too dark. I've lost so many of my dad's expressions to this.
Monday, August 7, 2017
This was going to be about something else
I have been missing my dad a lot in the last week, I keep thinking of his last days. How weak and thin he was, how he couldn't talk. How he reached for us again and again to just hold us to him, like holding us was the only way to say I love you. I love you, goodbye. I love you, let me fill up on you before I go. I love you, I want to hold you. For minutes upon minutes, heart to heart. His heart beat really slow, and I could feel it more than I've ever felt anyones heart. There was almost nothing between his heart and me. Skin. Some bones. His hands were so strong, arms so strong. How? Just pure need to hold us?
I used to sit on my dad's lap all the time, or next to him on the couch. He said I leaned too much, flopped on people too much, but I'm glad I did now. His voice is already fading a little. My memory is so bad, I can barely remember anything I've ever done, my life is just small memories strung out along a highway, each one miles from the next. But I remember how his hair felt, on the top of his head. He was balding, and the hair at the top was so soft. I would just pet him. He'd take it for a while and then shake me off. "Teetee, stop it!" I remember how his hands felt, soft also, skin smooth, nails neat and manicured. Miraculous cuticles. Chubby veins sticking out on top, but not veiny. His calves had almost no hair, I was always so jealous. I know how his nose felt, I would trace it from the space between his eyebrows to the tip of his nose, a little jelly roll nose. I was always trying to figure out which parts of my face I got from him, and which I got from my mom. I annoyed him, I know, always touching. Like a little monkey. But now I have all these tactile recollections. Wirey eyebrows, wild and corkscrewing. Meeting in the middle a little bit. I got that from him. And soft fatty earlobes. And a lump on the back of his neck. I was worried the lump was the cancer, but no. That was hidden inside.
I'm stressed, I'm stressed. Lately I'm so stressed. And I'll just be sitting somewhere and the memory of him reaching from that hospital bed in the living room for us, to hold us, weak with hunger and sickness, it will just smack me in the head. And I just start crying. I've gotten pretty good at stopping crying. I didn't want to cry in front of dad, he. I couldn't have done that, he didn't want us to be sad. And for so long it was like we were all in denial that he was dying so you couldn't cry. So I can sort of stop on command, I can sort of just swallow up the tears, and like shake it off. But I can't stop it from coming in the first place. It comes, quicker and quicker lately, a heavy wave smacking upon the shore. I feel guilty for not having called more. Talked more. Emailed more. And I can't anymore! I can't even call his voicemail. It's been disconnected. I can't even call and get a stranger on the line, just to tell them, "This used to be my dad's phone. He died, and I miss him."
I want to show him my new house. I want to show him music I found that I know he'd be so delighted by. I would even be happy to have him yell at me, ask me what the hell I'm doing with my life. I want to hug my dad, I want to pet his head and feel the fuzzy hairs holding on for dear life. Even have him question me about my weight. I hated that. I'd welcome it back for a little more time.
The new landlords, they sold the house, or they got an offer. My home is going to be gone, sold to some millionaires that had never even heard of the jungle before it became Silicone Beach. Fuck tech bros. My father died in that house. I cried in that house. I got my first period in that house. Learned how to paint in that house. I was the most me I have ever, ever, ever been in that house. Will I ever be as at home as I was in that house? Home home home. Gone to the highest bidder.
I used to sit on my dad's lap all the time, or next to him on the couch. He said I leaned too much, flopped on people too much, but I'm glad I did now. His voice is already fading a little. My memory is so bad, I can barely remember anything I've ever done, my life is just small memories strung out along a highway, each one miles from the next. But I remember how his hair felt, on the top of his head. He was balding, and the hair at the top was so soft. I would just pet him. He'd take it for a while and then shake me off. "Teetee, stop it!" I remember how his hands felt, soft also, skin smooth, nails neat and manicured. Miraculous cuticles. Chubby veins sticking out on top, but not veiny. His calves had almost no hair, I was always so jealous. I know how his nose felt, I would trace it from the space between his eyebrows to the tip of his nose, a little jelly roll nose. I was always trying to figure out which parts of my face I got from him, and which I got from my mom. I annoyed him, I know, always touching. Like a little monkey. But now I have all these tactile recollections. Wirey eyebrows, wild and corkscrewing. Meeting in the middle a little bit. I got that from him. And soft fatty earlobes. And a lump on the back of his neck. I was worried the lump was the cancer, but no. That was hidden inside.
I'm stressed, I'm stressed. Lately I'm so stressed. And I'll just be sitting somewhere and the memory of him reaching from that hospital bed in the living room for us, to hold us, weak with hunger and sickness, it will just smack me in the head. And I just start crying. I've gotten pretty good at stopping crying. I didn't want to cry in front of dad, he. I couldn't have done that, he didn't want us to be sad. And for so long it was like we were all in denial that he was dying so you couldn't cry. So I can sort of stop on command, I can sort of just swallow up the tears, and like shake it off. But I can't stop it from coming in the first place. It comes, quicker and quicker lately, a heavy wave smacking upon the shore. I feel guilty for not having called more. Talked more. Emailed more. And I can't anymore! I can't even call his voicemail. It's been disconnected. I can't even call and get a stranger on the line, just to tell them, "This used to be my dad's phone. He died, and I miss him."
I want to show him my new house. I want to show him music I found that I know he'd be so delighted by. I would even be happy to have him yell at me, ask me what the hell I'm doing with my life. I want to hug my dad, I want to pet his head and feel the fuzzy hairs holding on for dear life. Even have him question me about my weight. I hated that. I'd welcome it back for a little more time.
The new landlords, they sold the house, or they got an offer. My home is going to be gone, sold to some millionaires that had never even heard of the jungle before it became Silicone Beach. Fuck tech bros. My father died in that house. I cried in that house. I got my first period in that house. Learned how to paint in that house. I was the most me I have ever, ever, ever been in that house. Will I ever be as at home as I was in that house? Home home home. Gone to the highest bidder.
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