Thou Shalt Not Covet a Father’s Hug
Beneath layers of drama, hides affection in small gestures.
I did not want anything in my neighbor’s home, except the fatherly affection so easily poured onto their teenagers. I often saw her on evening walks with him, their hands touching every so often. If you watched closely, you noticed the rhythm of their steps, in unison, much like the rest of their movements. One summer evening, we had all gathered at her home, friends and family alike. The patio felt soggy, the intermittent mists of water settled onto our skin, cooling for just a second and then leaving a pile of wet air behind. We hurried back into the safety of air-conditioned conversation, barely audible amidst the burst of each group laughing at its own stories. I thought we looked like honeybees, each group moving to their own rhythm, in their very own circles, in the same space. The servers moved quickly from one to the other, offering small bites just large enough to manage while we carefully juggled a small clutch and fluted glass.
Then, without warning, it happened there, right there, in the middle of the room, I watched as he called his son to his side, and bid him goodnight with a hug. We were all there; talking, laughing and this giant of a man, well respected around town, suddenly stopped and so did we. Without the usual bravado of middle age, he stopped long enough to embrace the lanky young man, easily a foot taller than himself. Successful in his own right, he seemed so much at ease with his son. I caught myself gawking at the tiny vignette, a jealous voyeur in her home and quickly turned away. It was such a simple gesture but it meant the world. A short while later, I noticed that I was doing it again. Walking my dog, I watched with envy at a small child laughing as he was tossed and turned in the crook of brawny arms. The light hit them just enough so I could see the radiant smile on the young face, cradled, protected by his father. Again, I felt a pang so familiar, a feeling of loss for what I could not purchase, provide nor maneuver for my own.
My own father was unabashedly affectionate. I stare at an old grainy photograph of mine, with him, proudly beaming at me. At two, I am pretty sure I did not turn the world upside down to elicit such pride but as a parent, I understand that even a little is enough. As an adult, he saw my best skills and pointed them out regularly; a reminder that I had the possibility of the very best. We talked often, sometimes openly debating even though the conversation was not always easy. So, I expect that all fathers will be like him; protective, easily affectionate and involved in their children’s lives.
Not everyone is so lucky. Some fathers are so overwhelmed with their own lack of male parent that they pass on this emptiness to their own. They wrestle awkwardly through life, neither reaching out, nor ever really understanding the importance of their role. As if forced into existence, some form of paternal responsibility appears in its own shadowy, unconventional form. The child grows up, unsure how to accept it or how to react. Affection in any relation, can never be forced, and if if it is, it has no value. There may be hidden moments of love, but beneath the layers of complicated drama, no one really has the chance to see it, nor feel it.
On holidays and Father’s Day, children with a solid bond, wax poetic about this significant relationship. For those who have only an open space, there is only that emptiness. If death is the culprit, the child has a chance to say there was no choice. In absentia by choice, the sinking acknowledgement of sad reality remains. Then, just like that… the days turn into years and wounds eventually fade into the distant seams of our past. Our memories of a good father, comforts our darkest days. The fathers who failed to connect, slip out of memory and out of existence, at least for those who yearn for something they do not even know to request.
