Figuring out My Father
by Melody Sokolow
he should never have sat in that plastic purple recliner, feet propped up large, vulnerable and bare-socked upon that clunky ottoman, his head renounced upon
the crook of his once-powerful wrist while the white-haired alcoholic newsman
reported the day’s weather and live action shots of a random battlefield. he should
not have married my gorgeous mother who was never competent enough for who
he thought he was and so he made her life a living hell. in fact, she used those
words to refer to it. he didn’t belong in this outgrown suburban six bedroom
nightmare full of dusty crystal and shiny pastel stuffed animals. no, all of this was
wrong. i saw his spirit crumble in on itself and then fade off into some unfathomable spot like that small town in Arkansas which was the last place i would have
envisioned him ending up. all that music, those words crafted out of some kind of brilliance, the trail of Jews leading back into the Ukraine and those exotic ports of
Russia. his twisted sexuality, hidden under cover, punishing himself by never living
the life the way he was meant to, but finding my naiveté and vulnerability an easy
target upon which to dump that stifled rage. it should never have been this way. i
should not have cried at lunch when he noticed the ink on my forearms and then
sunk into a palpable pit of misery. it was never my intention to be buried or in a
Jewish cemetery, but certainly i never understood why he hated me so vehemently
when i succumbed to him. when i let him hurt me. i thought that was enough…..
