The first time I fucked up my face by falling off my bike and getting my horn rims embedded in my right eyebrow, over fifteen years ago now, I spoke to my dad from the hospital and the first thing he asked me was whether the bike was alright. It put a rift between us that neither one of us was able to repair.
The last time I spoke, and will ever speak, to my dad I told him, in a euphemistic way, how I had got so high the night before that I passed out and landed on my glasses again and put a gash in my face, in the exact same spot, on the other eyebrow. I was struck this time by his gentle humanity, even in his own frailty. And I wish now that I had had the vulnerability back then to confront him, to talk about how hurt, betrayed, abandoned I felt. Because I know now that he would not have stood for that, that he did care deeply, only ever wanted me to be safe, but didn’t always know what to say or how to act. And I wish it hadn’t taken me all of that time to fully appreciate that. I love you, Dad.