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Write About Your Father
Mar. 9th, 2006 01:27 amI'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say here. So many people have a specific story to tell. Something that lead them to learn this, or when they felt that. But he's great, as little as that words tells. Both my folks are. I grew up in a house filled with them. They were both there, only every wall and in every cabinet, and every other nook and cranny you can imagine. That's how it was for him.
He bought that house for my mom. He worked and he saved, and he signed his name on the line...Roger Burkle. I think he must've presented the papers and the ring to mom at the same time. Because he loves with a real sort of practicality that never leaves him. He didn't just want to tell her that he was going to love, shelter, and protect. He wanted to have the real proof of it, right there. So that she could know, and see and not just feel how much he loved her. And Mama has always loved him enough back to let him go on with it, even when feeling has always been enough for her, I think.
He had her, and the house, and I think they'd gotten ok with not having a me. Or whatever version of me there might've been over the years. He just helped her fill the house up that much more. More shelves and cabinets and he started building things to give her too. The chairs in the front yard and the bakers rack in the kitchen and the bedside table in their room. When I got older I started noticing it was never the obscure things. He didn't want to make model airplanes or grandfather clocks. It was things that would get used, especially by her. They sorts of things that get used daily, that she would use and think if him, but also just that they'd get used. Practical again. The practical romantic, whatever that might mean.
And then I went and showed up, and they made room. He'd filled that house for her, and he still made more room. He just built more shelves and shifted things around and made room in their rooms...a whole one for my own. And then as I got older he helped me fill that too. There were walks and camping trips and memories that were just ours. Science projects where I taught him more than he helped me, but I think he secretly didn't mind that at all. We refinished the dresser together, and I remember not wanting to cry in front of him when I got a splinter. So he just left the room, on purpose, to get some tea and let me have my few tears.
He just knew. And then he came back, and the glass was so cold and soothing against where I'd pulled it out, and I think he knew that part too. It's just the way that he is.
He bought that house for my mom. He worked and he saved, and he signed his name on the line...Roger Burkle. I think he must've presented the papers and the ring to mom at the same time. Because he loves with a real sort of practicality that never leaves him. He didn't just want to tell her that he was going to love, shelter, and protect. He wanted to have the real proof of it, right there. So that she could know, and see and not just feel how much he loved her. And Mama has always loved him enough back to let him go on with it, even when feeling has always been enough for her, I think.
He had her, and the house, and I think they'd gotten ok with not having a me. Or whatever version of me there might've been over the years. He just helped her fill the house up that much more. More shelves and cabinets and he started building things to give her too. The chairs in the front yard and the bakers rack in the kitchen and the bedside table in their room. When I got older I started noticing it was never the obscure things. He didn't want to make model airplanes or grandfather clocks. It was things that would get used, especially by her. They sorts of things that get used daily, that she would use and think if him, but also just that they'd get used. Practical again. The practical romantic, whatever that might mean.
And then I went and showed up, and they made room. He'd filled that house for her, and he still made more room. He just built more shelves and shifted things around and made room in their rooms...a whole one for my own. And then as I got older he helped me fill that too. There were walks and camping trips and memories that were just ours. Science projects where I taught him more than he helped me, but I think he secretly didn't mind that at all. We refinished the dresser together, and I remember not wanting to cry in front of him when I got a splinter. So he just left the room, on purpose, to get some tea and let me have my few tears.
He just knew. And then he came back, and the glass was so cold and soothing against where I'd pulled it out, and I think he knew that part too. It's just the way that he is.
