A Conversation About Nothing

You’re a Gregory, my father said as he took another swig of his old fashioned. That’s the problem. You’re just like me. How’s your drink. Do you like it?

I looked down at my glass filled with what can only be described as a bastardized old fashioned: three ounces of expensive bourbon mixed with maraschino cherry juice, topped with Sprite, and two bright red cherries. It’s sweet and sticky, like a quarter-machine gumball. But I don’t often get to drink with my father. Yeah, it’s good. 

You know, kid. I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it for a while. You kinda lost yourself back there. 

Yeah, I did. That happens sometimes. You know. Things get hard, and you go away for a while, but I came back. I’m back now. 

You doing okay?

Yeah, I’m okay, I say as I lift my glass to my lips, the Sprite fizzing and popping under my nostrils. Things are better now. I looked out into my father’s darkening backyard. The trees amass into a wall of black beyond the firepit. The first star of the night caught between the bare branches of a tall winter tree. I’m glad I came. It’s nice to see where you live. 

Not too bad for your old Dad? Kind of like the Dewy house but with more land.

I miss that house. It was a good place to grow up, with the creek and all the animals. I used to love exploring back there, especially when it flooded. It was like a new world.

You used to disappear for hours. Made your mom nervous, but you always came back, usually with a story or two and usually covered in mud, or bugs, or whatever you found that day.

I used to pack those little packs of mandarin oranges in my backpack like I was going off on an adventure. Although I didn’t need to. I could just eat the mulberries off the tree or dig up wild onions by the creek. Did I ever tell you that one time I got stuck in clay by the creek? I couldn’t get out and seriously thought I was going to get swallowed up. Lost one shoe and both my gloves. Mom asked me what happened, but I didn’t tell her the truth because I was afraid she wouldn’t let me go explore anymore, so I told her I slipped and fell. She made me hose off outside even though it was autumn and freezing. I think she knew I was lying. 

Your mom is a hard lady to tell the truth to. If she doesn’t want to believe it, she just won’t hear it. 

She does that a lot I’ve noticed. She ignores things she shouldn’t to keep the peace. It hurts her, and it makes me mad. Which is selfish, I guess. 

I know. I know. Trust me, I was married to her for ten years, and I’m still not sure I knew the real her.

I don’t think she knows the real her. I don’t think she ever got the chance to figure it out. Maybe none of us do.

We stayed silent for a moment. The trees lost their definition, and the color blue faded into memory. A rare moment when my father didn't dominate the conversation or turn the topic to himself. A habit of self-preservation I’ve noticed recently in myself. I used to abhor it. It made me angry and uncomfortable, but given a little pain, I came to understand it, like how I came to understand the familiar hand of whisky and smoke. I came to love him after hating him most of my life. I became him despite my squabbling. I was always him despite my denial. The fire crackled and popped, the flames flushed my cheeks, and I thought of sweet kisses and the things unseen. For a moment, I wasn’t daughter or child. For a moment, I was human with loss, and envy, and disappointment in the company of a mirror known as father. Thank you for inviting me. 

I’ve only been living here eight years.

Has it really been that long?

Yup. Sara and I moved here eight years ago.

I like Pennsylvania for you. It suits you.

I like it too. It’s no Colorado, but it’ll do.

You don’t need all that. Colorado is amazing, but you have to live big there, or you’re just wasting it. Time moves faster there. There’s more pressure than you know. 

But you like it?

I love it. I think I was always meant to live there.

You were always meant to live far away from everyone else.

I’ve always been far away from everyone. It’s okay. I’ve learned to love it. Somehow, it brought me closer to everyone. It brought us back together.

You brought us back together.

I did. I’m glad you finally see that. You were kind of a shit for a while, but now I understand why. You had pain we couldn’t know because you couldn’t comprehend it. There was lots of stuff. You thought you were fine. It made you do shitty things. And people thought shittyly of you. We all do it. To each other. To ourselves. 

I’ve been a bad father.

You’ve been a person. It’s okay. It’s fine.

It’s not. I messed up, kid. 

The fire brightened. The shadows not deep enough for what was creeping through. Trees crawling over the hill. The shrill cry of the owl coming for me. I didn’t want him to say it. I wanted to stay pleasantly on the peripheral. I wanted ease amongst all this misery. For all my depth, I could not handle the waves. Everything was bleeding, and I now I see only red. 

I messed up. 

You didn’t. 

I’m a bad person. I should have warned you. 

No, you’re not. You’re complex and broken, and you do stupid things. But, you couldn't have possibly warned me. How could you have? It's too much. It’s too much to ask of your lastborn. I’ve had too much to take this on. You can’t do this to me. Don’t, Dad. 

Tears and whisky, and firelight. A night we won’t talk about. Invisible strings that bind our misery. 

It wasn’t your fault, he said.

There it was—the thing everyone thought when they saw me. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Just stop. Don’t say it. 

It’s not, you know.

I know. 

It’s… hard. When someone dies. 

You’re telling me. 

The whole world goes black…When you lose someone. 

I couldn’t look away from the fire. His words crashed down on me like the night sky. 

It was an accident. 

I know that. I don’t need this. I’m fine.

You’re fine. 

Yeah, I’m fine. 

No one’s fine. Not a single person. Especially you. 

Why do you want to do this right now? Why are we talking about this?

Because you never talk about it. You don’t even look at it. 

I’m dealing with it.

Are you? Because it seems like you’re stuck. It seems like you’re letting it ruin you.

Dad, stop. I don’t want to do this. We were having a perfectly fine night, and you go and do this. Don’t you think I don’t want to think about this all the time? I spend enough of my own time thinking about it. I don’t need to do this with you. 

You have to talk about it sometime.

Not now. 

For a moment, only fire and silence. 

Fine. We don’t have to talk about it. 

Thank you. 

For a moment, only black trees. 

Did I tell you that I started working in a prison? 

No, when did that start?

A few weeks ago. 

My father dove into his time at the prison, leaving behind the heavy feelings because I asked him to. Letting me breathe. At another time, we’ll talk, but for now, we’ll enjoy the firelight and our similarities. We’ll drink whiskey and talk about nothing.