The afternoon burst like a
tangerine, spilling orange into purple, its golden orb sinking into oblivion to
reveal an infinite blanket of diamonds. The indigo tendrils that swallowed up
the dying sunshine mesmerized me. It felt like an attack, but a very sensuous
one.
We sat next to the shimmering swimming pool that mimicked the slowly appearing moon in its clear ripples. I looked at the dead leaves floating on top of it like palms upturned, ready to cup my cheeks in their wrinkled folds. What would a tree's embrace feel like, I wondered. Would it be warm and sappy or cold and mossy? Would it feel like the same as my father's hand that held my arm tenderly at that moment? On cue, as soon as that thought entered my mind, my father let go of my arm. From where his hand used to be, a spot of loneliness settled in.
My father started to pluck the strings of his guitar, its sound ringing clearly through the silent early evening. I could hear the quiet hum of insects through Jobim's "Meditacåo". The music felt like a warm hug from a loved one. Somehow it held the spot of loneliness at bay. It was still there, but at least it did not spread.
I stretched out my legs onto the blanket we sat on, its colors lost to the charcoal grey of the night. The browns and blacks that made up my father went the way of the blanket's hues. My father started humming through his strumming, and the insects were gathering more courage in their buzzing as well, their chatter, probably well meaning enough, becoming more incessant.
I closed my eyes, trying to sift through the din of arthropod talk to revel in the tinny strums. I wanted to commit it to memory. I wanted to remember my father's humming, which, remembering it now, sounded like a low ocean wave at midnight in Bali. I was not searching for slumber but for a clearer reception of the sounds surrounding me.
"Did you fall asleep?" my father asked though the sound of the guitar.
"No. I'm just thinking?" I half-whispered.
"What about?" my father queried.
I paused a bit on this. There was no particular thought in my head. There was just a string of random thoughts hanging there, much like my mother's pearls, each catching the light then fading as another one took its place.
"Nothing important. Just stuff." I answered at last.
"Just stuff, eh?" I could feel my father grinning through the darkness.
Without my noticing it, the song my father was playing had already morphed into the Beatles' "While My Guitar Gently Weeps". This song was sadder. It was not a crippling sadness like the death of a genuinely loved one. It felt more like the end of summer. It felt more like a goodbye to something you could never recapture.
My father still refrained from singing the words to the song. He was just content in humming along to his guitar. Sometimes I could catch little snippets of words and phrases through his humming, though. This entire tableau felt strangely soothing to me. It was not something that happened often. In fact, I kept thinking it would never happen again. Maybe that was why I kept my eyes closed. I was intent on committing all of these things into the annals of my memory. I could feel the spot of loneliness on my arm dwindling.
"Do you want me to ask your mother to bring us some Coke? Its pretty balmy tonight." my father suddenly broke his humming.
"Not really." I replied, a little testily. I was still absorbing all the little nuances of this experience and did not want him to stop. His question felt like a period in mid sentence.
"Okay." he said as relief washed over me. This night was not over. My father resumed his humming, having transformed his song yet again, this time into Jim Croce's "Time In A Bottle". This song was sweeter than the previous song choices. It felt like he was kissing me on the forehead with it. A strawberry red glow started to blossom in the middle of my chest. It felt like there was a rose blooming there. I started to hum as well. My father smiled.
A gentle breeze wafted through the night's balmy air. It ran its fingers through my hair. I think it ran through my father's as well. It felt playful. I rested my head on my father's arm. It was strange but I felt a static charge as I did that.
My father became listless. The song became Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" and it pushed my head off of my father's arm, ever so gently. "This is a one-time deal. Things will fall apart eventually." it seemed to say to me. I could feel the rose in my chest wilting and a sharp pain on my arm replace it. The spot of loneliness was back.
I started to feel a sober thoughtfulness creeping into my heart with the balmy air. It was coming from that spot. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the air itself. Maybe it was because I knew this night would never reoccur and I did not want that to happen. Maybe it was all of these things together that pulled at my heartstrings with such vigor. Whatever it was, I started feeling all choked up.
I opened my eyes. From a distance I could hear a television coming to life followed by the whirring to life of half a dozen kitchen appliances. The sound felt artificial and foreboding.
"The power's back on." my father said with a sense of relief in his voice.
"I heard." I was resigned by now to the fact that whatever this night meant or was, it had bid me adieu a moment ago. It didn't drive off to its home a few miles away. It packed its bags, boarded a plane and left the country to live in some exotic part of the world where little boys and their fathers could be close and intimate without male machismo and lasciviousness thinking anything of it. I fought back the black bile building up behind my throat.
From the distance my mother's voice saying "You boys better come in. I'll have dinner ready in a moment." rang like a slap on the face waking me up from a dream. My father got up.
"Let's go." my dad reached out to me with his free hand, the other strangling the neck of his guitar. It felt as if he was choking the instrument into silence. Before I could even notice what was happening to stop myself, the tears came.
"What's wrong, son? Why are you crying?" I couldn't stop my crying to answer my father's question. It just flooded out like a dam breaking. My sobbing got that point where my face felt pins and needles. The embarrassment compounded my sadness and I just ran into the house.
I was crying because I felt a part of me die. I was crying because that part that died would have given me the courage to live a more honest life earlier on. I was crying for all the other little boys who cried when that part of them died. I cried for all the fathers, including my own, who killed a part of their sons without knowing it. If I had know, I would have cried for a generation of gay men and their emotional baggage and fear of intimacy.
A few minutes later we were all having dinner and that was the end of that. All through dinner though, my seven-year-old heart couldn't keep the sense of loss inside of me down. Unbeknownst to my juvenile psyche, that was my first taste of what heartbreak was. It would be my mistress many a night in my future. Still, at that moment, all I could think of was the fear that that night would never repeat itself.
I was right. That evening, or anything like it, never happened again.
We sat next to the shimmering swimming pool that mimicked the slowly appearing moon in its clear ripples. I looked at the dead leaves floating on top of it like palms upturned, ready to cup my cheeks in their wrinkled folds. What would a tree's embrace feel like, I wondered. Would it be warm and sappy or cold and mossy? Would it feel like the same as my father's hand that held my arm tenderly at that moment? On cue, as soon as that thought entered my mind, my father let go of my arm. From where his hand used to be, a spot of loneliness settled in.
My father started to pluck the strings of his guitar, its sound ringing clearly through the silent early evening. I could hear the quiet hum of insects through Jobim's "Meditacåo". The music felt like a warm hug from a loved one. Somehow it held the spot of loneliness at bay. It was still there, but at least it did not spread.
I stretched out my legs onto the blanket we sat on, its colors lost to the charcoal grey of the night. The browns and blacks that made up my father went the way of the blanket's hues. My father started humming through his strumming, and the insects were gathering more courage in their buzzing as well, their chatter, probably well meaning enough, becoming more incessant.
I closed my eyes, trying to sift through the din of arthropod talk to revel in the tinny strums. I wanted to commit it to memory. I wanted to remember my father's humming, which, remembering it now, sounded like a low ocean wave at midnight in Bali. I was not searching for slumber but for a clearer reception of the sounds surrounding me.
"Did you fall asleep?" my father asked though the sound of the guitar.
"No. I'm just thinking?" I half-whispered.
"What about?" my father queried.
I paused a bit on this. There was no particular thought in my head. There was just a string of random thoughts hanging there, much like my mother's pearls, each catching the light then fading as another one took its place.
"Nothing important. Just stuff." I answered at last.
"Just stuff, eh?" I could feel my father grinning through the darkness.
Without my noticing it, the song my father was playing had already morphed into the Beatles' "While My Guitar Gently Weeps". This song was sadder. It was not a crippling sadness like the death of a genuinely loved one. It felt more like the end of summer. It felt more like a goodbye to something you could never recapture.
My father still refrained from singing the words to the song. He was just content in humming along to his guitar. Sometimes I could catch little snippets of words and phrases through his humming, though. This entire tableau felt strangely soothing to me. It was not something that happened often. In fact, I kept thinking it would never happen again. Maybe that was why I kept my eyes closed. I was intent on committing all of these things into the annals of my memory. I could feel the spot of loneliness on my arm dwindling.
"Do you want me to ask your mother to bring us some Coke? Its pretty balmy tonight." my father suddenly broke his humming.
"Not really." I replied, a little testily. I was still absorbing all the little nuances of this experience and did not want him to stop. His question felt like a period in mid sentence.
"Okay." he said as relief washed over me. This night was not over. My father resumed his humming, having transformed his song yet again, this time into Jim Croce's "Time In A Bottle". This song was sweeter than the previous song choices. It felt like he was kissing me on the forehead with it. A strawberry red glow started to blossom in the middle of my chest. It felt like there was a rose blooming there. I started to hum as well. My father smiled.
A gentle breeze wafted through the night's balmy air. It ran its fingers through my hair. I think it ran through my father's as well. It felt playful. I rested my head on my father's arm. It was strange but I felt a static charge as I did that.
My father became listless. The song became Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" and it pushed my head off of my father's arm, ever so gently. "This is a one-time deal. Things will fall apart eventually." it seemed to say to me. I could feel the rose in my chest wilting and a sharp pain on my arm replace it. The spot of loneliness was back.
I started to feel a sober thoughtfulness creeping into my heart with the balmy air. It was coming from that spot. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the air itself. Maybe it was because I knew this night would never reoccur and I did not want that to happen. Maybe it was all of these things together that pulled at my heartstrings with such vigor. Whatever it was, I started feeling all choked up.
I opened my eyes. From a distance I could hear a television coming to life followed by the whirring to life of half a dozen kitchen appliances. The sound felt artificial and foreboding.
"The power's back on." my father said with a sense of relief in his voice.
"I heard." I was resigned by now to the fact that whatever this night meant or was, it had bid me adieu a moment ago. It didn't drive off to its home a few miles away. It packed its bags, boarded a plane and left the country to live in some exotic part of the world where little boys and their fathers could be close and intimate without male machismo and lasciviousness thinking anything of it. I fought back the black bile building up behind my throat.
From the distance my mother's voice saying "You boys better come in. I'll have dinner ready in a moment." rang like a slap on the face waking me up from a dream. My father got up.
"Let's go." my dad reached out to me with his free hand, the other strangling the neck of his guitar. It felt as if he was choking the instrument into silence. Before I could even notice what was happening to stop myself, the tears came.
"What's wrong, son? Why are you crying?" I couldn't stop my crying to answer my father's question. It just flooded out like a dam breaking. My sobbing got that point where my face felt pins and needles. The embarrassment compounded my sadness and I just ran into the house.
I was crying because I felt a part of me die. I was crying because that part that died would have given me the courage to live a more honest life earlier on. I was crying for all the other little boys who cried when that part of them died. I cried for all the fathers, including my own, who killed a part of their sons without knowing it. If I had know, I would have cried for a generation of gay men and their emotional baggage and fear of intimacy.
A few minutes later we were all having dinner and that was the end of that. All through dinner though, my seven-year-old heart couldn't keep the sense of loss inside of me down. Unbeknownst to my juvenile psyche, that was my first taste of what heartbreak was. It would be my mistress many a night in my future. Still, at that moment, all I could think of was the fear that that night would never repeat itself.
I was right. That evening, or anything like it, never happened again.
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