I chose my dad first. Easily.
He’s almost always full of rage but he’s largely reasonable. I went to his house. It was obvious that a woman lived there. Daniel and I know that he has a woman who comes over occasionally; he only just never lets us meet her or vice versa.
He told me to wait for him in his make-shift study. I smiled. Dad always referred us to the study whenever he wanted to talk about something extremely serious (mostly our results). On his table, there were a lot of papers scattered around- legal work.
He walked into the room smiling, sat at the table and said, ‘So what’s up?’
‘Dad’ I started, ‘Please don’t be angry. Please. But I just want to talk to you about mom… About your marriage… Our family. I don’t know. I don’t mean to interfere in your personal lives, but to be fair, you guys said you’ll take only some time apart. Now…’
‘Diana. This is not up for discussion. I’m sorry, but it isn’t. Your mom and I are still taking our time to sort through our issues. But it seems as though it gets harder and harder to let that woman see anything from my own view.’
He was already getting angry so I shifted focus. ‘What first attracted you to mom?’
Dad seemed to relax. He laughed and looked as if he was remembering a distant amazing past. Then he said, ‘She understood my poems and musings. Many other women could not have; they did not. Let me show you the first poem I wrote to her’
He seemed excited as he reached for a little plastic bowl in his bottom drawer. He produced an old sheet of paper and gave it to me. It read:
“When the world is colder than cool;
I’ll wrap you in my arms and bless you with the warmest embrace.
When hell switches sides with the earth
And the heat gets too unbearable for you,
I’ll trade my warmth for icy heartlessness
And take you in my arms until I am melted into perfect oblivion”
I thought it was a nice poem and I pointed that out to him. He said, ‘Ah yes! Although now I can think of better ways to make the poem sweeter, your mom thought it was the best thing ever. I loved her for that…’
As my dad seemed to be reminiscing, I slid the poem under the table and brought out my phone to take a picture of it. Returning the poem, I said a few words of assurance of my mom’s love and encouragement for him to approach her again.
I left the house. I believe that in my father’s heart, I have planted a seed of reconciliation and rekindled a fire of love…
I hope so