I spoke to my father during a pause in some work on Sunday. It had apparently been a few months since we last spoke. He expressed the concern that something might have happened to me and they didn’t know. It was not emotional at all. Simple explanation, proposed simple solution: they would appreciate if I called more often. It seemed reasonable enough and I said I would. We talked about other things, like his complaints about my brothers’ laziness or my mother’s angry silence toward him, and we even compared exercise regimens.
What I appreciate about our conversations these days is that they are respectful. We speak as men—as adults. He tells of his experiences with drugs, alcoholism, and violence not to warn me but to relay information about who he is. He is apologetic about his treatment of his three eldest and my mother. He acknowledges that people are who they are and they cannot be expected to change their ways unless it is their choice to change for themselves. He’s learned these things over the decades, and started when he and my mother had their first child. I believe it is easy to say these sorts of things to oneself but far more difficult to remember them. Age undoubtedly forces a man to reflect or deny.