After a few rounds with my sister on the telephone I cave. I agree to meet my dad in California. The stipulation being that he must call me when he gets in from Philly where he is currently visiting my sister for her birthday, and if I am still in town we can go from there. I called his bluff. Sadly I knew that was one phone call that would never be made. And although he was not scheduled to be back in San Jose until Friday, I decided to leave on Thursday. A pre-emptive strike against rejection of the severest form. I wrestled with this decision. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Be the bigger person. People can change. But after a long while I came to the conclusion that nothing good would come of this situation. This is not a blanket statement made by a scorned and hateful daughter. This is a statement made of observation and learned behavior. Contact with my father equals crying, usually on my end. On his, if enough alcohol has been consumed. And there is usually plenty of alcohol. I wasn’t planning on seeing him in the first place and the idea of dragging myself, metaphorically bruised and battered, Cris-cross this great nation holds little appeal.
We pass into Colorado and my spirits lift. I put him aside in my thoughts. Be here now. Up through Durango and towards Telluride. I want to see as many towns as possible. Stopping for walks and pictures as we pass through resort communities and old mining settlements. I pull into Telluride and head for my mountain. Straight to the top. Pitch my tent. Sleep. My body is exhausted. My mind has been racing. I wake in the night and read until I fall asleep again. We hike for hours in the morning. Five hours. Seems like five hundred miles. And it’s perfect weather. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. It’s labor day weekend and I celebrate by turning off my cell phone and exploring. We spend two days in the aspen reading and sleeping and hiking. And when I finally come down off my mountain I stumble upon the town film festival and am treated to an open air discussion about the film industry and a question and answer period with Greg Kinnear and Jeff Goldblum. Marley and I sit in the grass among the other cinephiles and their canine companions. This place was seriously designed for me. Rain sets in. Gentle and soothing. A lullaby in its greatest form. Marley and I retreat to our tent and lettered pages. We decide to head out of town in the morning. The rain persists making hiking less than ideal. But providing a perfect atmosphere for the movies. Cozy inside watching documentaries and indie flicks.
As we pass through the mountain towns I am baptized into my surroundings. My initiation is complete. Jeuin Ko warned me that living in Colorado required a separate savings for windshield repairs. It’s just kind of accepted that you’ll need a new one every season. Rocks kicked up by passing trucks. Ice and cold creating a mess of small damages. And when my windshield nicks and the crack creeps across the windshield, a slow pace, ten, no, eleven inches, I stupidly smile because I’m now one of the gang. And I remember driving with Jenn Shore in Charlotte when her windshield was hit. And A week later she had to replace it because she didn’t patch the little crack in time. I didn’t know you could patch a windshield. But taking this information to heart now, I pulled into the Target Parking lot, the only store that seemed familiar and perused the automotive department. Clueless as to what I was looking for exactly I scanned the isle for some sort of windshield repair kit. Discouraged, I asked a gentleman searching through windshield wiper blades. After explaining my predicament he looked at me with that you’re such a girl look and told me that he was pretty sure that something like that didn’t exist. And if it did it sure as hell wouldn’t be at Target. I should try an auto parts store but his bet was on a new windshield.
I turned and headed for the door. Disappointed but at least I tried. And a moment later I was being paged by the same man running towards me calling out ma’am and waving a cardboard box. Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. If it isn’t the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Brilliantly titled Windshield Repair Kit. I thanked the gentleman and turned towards the check out line. Women: one. Men: zero. Or we’ll call it even because he did humble himself to deliver the goods personally. Even-stevens. We’ll call it a draw, partner.
As soon as this rain stops the crack is at my mercy. I follow the instruction securely enclosed. And…voila. We shall see how it holds up, but for now, it’s looking good. I turn on my phone. Have it ready in case of other emergencies. The weekend has come and gone. No message from my father. It hurts that he didn’t call. It hurts that I was right. But I’m learning new and healthy ways to navigate this relationship. To accept that he is flawed and broken too. That the sum of his parts is no greater and no less than mine. To forgive him for his shortcomings and not hang myself by their neuse. To separate my worth from his inabilities. To learn that the things that have happened to me do not define me, that I am not a victim. To stand strong and know that I am loved.
We create words to define our experiences and these words bring attendant emotions that jerk us around like dogs on a leash. We get seduced by our own mantras (I’m a failure…I’m lonely…I’m a failure…I’m lonely…) and we become monuments to them.
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