I’m driving home, again, somewhere deep in the mountains. I do what I always do, when my podcasts are exhausted and my brain is still retelling something that I can’t hold onto anymore. I call friends, siblings, my mom, like every good adult. Just to make sure they know that I thought about them, hoping they hear I love them and I still care. Finally, when my siblings phones go into voicemail again, and the road to home stretches long enough for a phone call, I call my Dad. Because he asked me and I’m not good at ignoring requests.
Most conversations with my Dad feels like I’m going to war, and the armor never got ordered. Memories of him yelling at me and reminding me of how worthless, or stupid I am get confused with a bigger, darker monster. Somewhere, in the arc of my life story, buried in the details, my Dad stopped following my life.
David, my older brother, once told me: “When you get your stuff figured out, and you’re doing well off by yourself Dad will give you space you need.” I am not sure if I’m there yet, I chose to chase a dream, children of a legacy don’t get that privilege.
“Hi Peter,” my Dad answers the phone his voice over powering the background noise.
“Hey Dad,” I’m 25, in a truck a thousand miles away, and I feel like I’m five years old squeaking out a response, “how are you?”
“I’m fine, how are you?” My Dad delivers the same response for the last 23 years.
“I’m alright, driving back from Denver right now, on my way back home from a race.”
“How’d it go?”
“Ok, I got caught up in a crash, broke my derailleur, and still finished.” It hurts to tell the truth to people who don’t deserve to hear it. “But I got to talk to a couple of managers for next season.” I know Dad isn’t listening, he never does.
“I’m sorry I didn’t show up, I’m sorry I didn’t listen.” Phrases and words I want to hear. But never do. Old, jaded men, forget that no matter how long it will take, young and naive youth will still forgive those who have hurt them. My Dad is a man that I will never be.
“I gotta go, Karen is waiting for me to get on the new boat, thanks for calling, alright, bye.” My Dad hangs up.
I study the back side of Collegiate Mountain Range, the dark green colors glow across the blue sky. If I made an impact, I wonder how long it would take my Dad to applaud. Somewhere, in my life story, I stopped looking for my Dad’s praise. Men, fathers, forget that we are the first teachers, mentors, and fans boys want to hear. We breath dreams into creation, or grind them into ashes, and leave our son’s with empty unanswered questions. My hands clutch the steering wheel. The sun begins to hide behind an evening thunderstorm. My Dad will never understand.