I helped my dad lay sod last Thursday. My legs are still sore today. My back is better, but my legs are still killing me. And now I have an anonymous bruise on my elbow. I did not hit it on anything. It just hurts.
Enough whining. Here’s a story.
----
Most of the time when I recall a story here, I have a pretty good memory of what happened. I remember some better than others. I typically recall many of the details of what happened. If I don’t remember all of them, I at least remember enough to make up the rest.
There are some memories that are much more minute. Just a flash of an image. A moment. Little detail. No context. It is much more difficult to write about these events.
Today I’ll attempt to write about such a moment.
I hit my dad.
I remember little more than that. I remember the look on his face. I remember where we stood. I remember some of what I did and felt afterward.
I do not remember how old I was. Only that I was a teenager. Probably in my middle teens. 15-17.
I don’t remember what led to that moment. I don’t remember it being a fight. For some reason, gentle ribbing gone too far seems more likely.
As a child I had a short temper. Very short. My granddad has hours of home movies of back yard wiffle ball games that serve as audio/video evidence of my overly sensitive nature. The uncontrolled hormonal flow of adolescence worsened the situation. It was not unusual for a seemingly well-intentioned and good-natured gibe to send me spiraling down the path to the dark side. (Hurt→Anger→Hate→Suffering.) I’m pretty sure that’s what happened on this particular day.
That’s not to say that my dad and I did not fight. We did. We had our fair share of tête-à-têtes that involved much shouting, stomping, and door slamming. I couldn’t tell you what they were about, but I’m sure it was nothing different than any other father and teenage son.
Back to the day in question. Here is what I do remember.
My dad and I stood in the hall outside my bedroom. I was mad. I wanted to go to my room. My dad stood between my door and me. For some reason or another, he would not move. I think I tried to move him out of the way. He out weighed me by about 50 pounds. It didn’t work.
At that moment getting into my room was a life or death endeavor. My anger and frustration boiled over.
I don’t know if I made a conscious decision or if it was merely base instinct. I just remember drawing back my fist and sending it flying into his chest.
I’m not sure who was more shocked. My dad or me.
He looked down at his chest then looked back at me. Shock. Pure shock hung on his face. I didn’t know what to expect. A shove. A punch. More yelling. I was scared to death.
My dad stepped out of the way and out of the hall, and I burst into my room.
I slammed the door behind me and fell onto my bed. The last memory I have of this particular episode is of me lying face down on my bed, bawling into my tear soaked bedspread.
I never apologized.
As far as I remember, we never talked about it again. Not to this day.
I wonder if my dad even remembers that it ever happened.
Have I mentioned that I really dread the next few years of raising a teenage boy? I do. And the worst part is that I’ll have a teenage girl right on his heels.
Serenity now!
No comments:
Post a Comment