"He was a good man"
Yes, he was.
"How are you holding up?"
I'm all right.
Two days of this. Expressions of genuine concern that I'm fielding like tennis serves. "Ok?" Yes. "Sorry." Thanks.
And the truth is, I'm happy people care enough to ask - I just can't seem to manage to say anything other than something obvious and stupid. Family's doing ok, mom's flying out today, not sure what's next. They just keep coming out on reflex - like prefixes to the answers I should be giving.
He wasn't a good man, he was dad. He was the irresistible force, all my life. The guy who knew what to do all the time. The dad other dads envied, when he fixed their kid's bikes, then fixed their cars, and then pointed out a dozen things in their houses that needed repair. He took care of life's details, pushed through the pain, and got things done. Good man? Yeah, for starters.
Dad didn't do the empathy thing. He'd save you from your own foolishness, but you'd still feel like a fool when it was over. "You do this, like this, see? Simple." he'd say, before moving on to the next thing. And, sure, it was simple as explained to you - that instant - and you'd wonder why in hell you didn't just take care of it yourself. It's what dad would have done - just did, in fact. And while you're standing there berating yourself, he's found three other things that you really should have taken care of months ago.
What's with you anyway?
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