Today’s post is an excerpt from the memoir I wrote last year, the one I used as a tool to work through both my relationship with, and the loss of my father. Which is an ongoing process, at best.
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A way too long birthday reflection + thanks for the memories.
When we sat down at a table together, for better or worse, we attended the ritual of being family, and somehow this made it so.
Mostly I think of dimly lit Italian restaurants, the smell of garlic hanging like a spirit in the air, and dad ordering Chianti in a weird accent, insisting despite the confusion of the wait staff, that he was pronouncing it authentically.
He practically wedges himself past the woman and into the house, although she hasn’t exactly opened the door wide in welcome. I meet her eyes in concession to the unusualness of this situation, an unusualness I feel she and I exist alone within, like a very small room painted in bright colors which clash violently enough to make you uncomfortable. But then I dart past her, after my father, because I am slightly concerned that concession or no, she might shut the door in my face.