Waiting to Tell
“He has been depressed for years,” I said to her. “It started long before he was diagnosed. I don’t think I ever saw him any other way since my late teens.” My father’s wife nodded, not saying anything, lost in thoughts, smoking slowly, meticulously almost, as if it was very important she did it right. I was sitting on her mauve-colored sofa, chasing memories, remembering that my grandmother told me once that my father had always been like that, dark, brooding, moody. It’s not how I remember him. When I was kid, he was the gentle one; my mother was an angry, hurtful fury. “It was because he killed a man,” she said, looking up, staring me directly in the eye with her round blue eyes. “Did he tell you?” I nodded. “Yes, …show more content…
He was more understanding. In a way he didn’t think it was that big of a deal. That bothered me no end. I t bothered me because I didn’t feel take seriously. I suffered because of that secret, for my father and for myself. I’ll never tell again, I swore then. But I’ll write about it, some day. When he’s dead.
I didn’t stick to that. I told someone else much later. My partner. He tried to comfort me. He said I had to see it in the context of the war. It wasn’t on my mind constantly but it was on my mind often. There were times when I almost wished he was already dead so I could finally talk about it openly. Write about it. When I got the call that he died, it was one of the first things I thought —I’m free to tell. Oddly though, the urge that I had felt for so many years, thirty years, died down within a day. All I could think about was that I hoped he was all right, wherever he was. And then I wondered. Was it decent to write about it? He was dead, it couldn’t harm him but it was his story, not mine. After having spoken with his second wife that day, three days after he died, I went back to the hotel and called my partner. “She mentioned the murder,” I said. “Really?” “Yes. But it wasn’t the same version.” “How old were you when he told
“He has been depressed for years,” I said to her. “It started long before he was diagnosed. I don’t think I ever saw him any other way since my late teens.” My father’s wife nodded, not saying anything, lost in thoughts, smoking slowly, meticulously almost, as if it was very important she did it right. I was sitting on her mauve-colored sofa, chasing memories, remembering that my grandmother told me once that my father had always been like that, dark, brooding, moody. It’s not how I remember him. When I was kid, he was the gentle one; my mother was an angry, hurtful fury. “It was because he killed a man,” she said, looking up, staring me directly in the eye with her round blue eyes. “Did he tell you?” I nodded. “Yes, …show more content…
He was more understanding. In a way he didn’t think it was that big of a deal. That bothered me no end. I t bothered me because I didn’t feel take seriously. I suffered because of that secret, for my father and for myself. I’ll never tell again, I swore then. But I’ll write about it, some day. When he’s dead.
I didn’t stick to that. I told someone else much later. My partner. He tried to comfort me. He said I had to see it in the context of the war. It wasn’t on my mind constantly but it was on my mind often. There were times when I almost wished he was already dead so I could finally talk about it openly. Write about it. When I got the call that he died, it was one of the first things I thought —I’m free to tell. Oddly though, the urge that I had felt for so many years, thirty years, died down within a day. All I could think about was that I hoped he was all right, wherever he was. And then I wondered. Was it decent to write about it? He was dead, it couldn’t harm him but it was his story, not mine. After having spoken with his second wife that day, three days after he died, I went back to the hotel and called my partner. “She mentioned the murder,” I said. “Really?” “Yes. But it wasn’t the same version.” “How old were you when he told