My father is talking about something. I’m not really listening. It’s the same old song of my childhood, the typical momentum of his conversation for as long as I’ve known him.
He’s talking about himself. If that meant he was opening to me, revealing something meaningful, that would be different. But he’s talking about the same shit he always discusses, stuff that feels like it doesn’t matter in the long run, the kind of conversation you might find at some incredibly dull happy hour. It’s not so much what he’s saying as it is the way he says it; fascinated and trying to telegraph it, as if I’m expected to be as taken with his words as he is.
I want my father to ask about my experience in Pardubice, to question what I’m doing there, maybe even to challenge it just a little bit. I could handle that. What I can’t handle is his arrogant insistence on speaking only, only about himself.
Children rely on their parents to care, to show interest.
At heart we are all children.
I want my father to ask about my experience in Pardubice, to question what I’m doing there, maybe even to challenge it just a little bit. I could handle that. What I can’t handle is his arrogant insistence on speaking only, only about himself.
Children rely on their parents to care, to show interest.
At heart we are all children.
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