10

Last night's post got me thinking a lot about that period of my life... 10, 11, our house on a street called Arbon, and my Dad.
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Janna and I were downstairs playing Tetris. (Remember Tetris?) My Mom came downstairs and said (I can remember it so clearly), "Your Father is leaving. Is there anything you would like to say to him?" And I don't know if it was how she said it or what that made me respond, "I do."

I said I did but I didn't. There was this bizarre dynamic with my Mother when it came to my Father. I felt, even as a young adult, that I had to hate on my Dad. Sort of like I had to take her side.

I went upstairs and out to the garage where my Dad was hastily gathering some belongings before he split, my Mom following right behind me. I knew perfectly that leaving meant leaving.

What followed was a scene straight from a Lifetime Original movie. Maybe even Jerry Springer. Or I don't know. But a sad scene it was. I pretty much let my Dad have it. Every word in the book. I called him horrible, horrible things. He stopped everything and froze, almost mummified, and took it. I can still see his face.

Obviously, I did have some (a lot of some) genuine hurt and anger. When else does a 10 yr. old shout the f-word and other vile things at their own parent? But even so, it hurt me saying it to him. Somehow I imagined I was proving my loyalty to my Mother with that performance.

Leave he did like he'd done before. But this time he didn't come back. The next years were tumultuous. He left us with absolutely nothing. When I was 16, he started making small efforts. Like bringing me his can of coins wherein I would find Bahamian coins from his trips with one of his women. For years, we jokingly referred to him as 'Uncle Alan'.

But I knew I still loved him. And I knew he still loved me. Somehow, I never doubted our bond.

I had all but forgotten about that incident until a few years ago. I stuffed it somewhere. My Mom brought it up because my Dad, before he died, brought it up. He told her how that moment stuck with him all through the years. Uggghhh. Sickening.

I feel so bad. I know I wasn't to blame. I was only 10. But still. I think about that moment in time. Only a few minutes. The future, my Dad's terrible and violent and bloody demise, my very life now, hinged upon that brief scene. What if, whether he deserved it or not (he didn't), my Mom had responded to him with forgiveness that day? What if I had been capable at 10 to talk them both out of their anger and haste? What if he decided to stay? What if my Mom let him?

I want to go back and do some more cussing... at all of us. At my Dad all over again for leaving us. At my Mom for not offering forgiveness yet again. At myself for not responding with compassion. We all could have chosen a different path that day. We all chose poorly.

These, I think, are the scenes heaven and its angels pause to watch in horror.