My Father Shares Fruit

My father shares fruits with the family. Every morning, he leaves me some on our kitchen counter. Sometimes it’s one slice from the fruit he was eating that day, or an entire bowl full of something from the fridge. It depended on where I was in my life. 

One time, he left half an orange for me.

I always had a strange relationship with him. As I collect my memories of him, I have conflicting viewpoints on whether or not he was a good man. If I look towards my mother, I see him yelling, screaming, and berating her. I used to shake in fear. I didn’t want him to be mean to her. It hurts just thinking about what life would be like without her. Yet, when he looks at me, he smiles and gently asks me how my day was. How could a man be so sour yet sweet at the same time?

One time, he left a slice of apple for me.

After I was done snacking, I would walk with him in the neighborhood. Be it sun, rain, or snow, we’d be up and walking. The cold morning air, the slowness from sleep, and the lack of noise on the local roads were a euphoric break from the chaos in our lives. However, the apple from before had me hungry for more. Sometimes I looked up at my dad and his thin frame. He used to be very muscular and handsome, but years of chronic illness tore him down. I always stayed quiet as he talked about his schedule that morning. I didn’t want to ruin the peace he rarely had indoors. I wish I had more of it.

One time, he left a handful of blueberries for me.

I remember when my dad started complaining about how old he was getting. He would complain about his strained back, his horrible eyesight, his colitis. He hated taking medications. They had “death” as a side effect written in big bold letters. I told him one day that I needed medication. He asked, “For what? You’re young and healthy. You don’t need to go on medication for anxiety.” 

“Yes I do”, was what I wanted to say, but I knew my argument would go nowhere. 

“You don’t know the pain I feel from taking medications, Beta.” 

“But I need this medication, Dad. I can’t sleep, or eat, or study–”

“No, you don’t!”

My ears rang. 

“I’m done talking about this.”

He booked an appointment for me the next week.

One time, he left a cut-up peach for me

The outside of the slices still had the fuzzy skin on. I joked that it felt like his nonexistent beard. He then realized he had forgotten to shave that morning. Instinctively, I reached out to touch his face. I blinked. The prickling of his stubble reminded me of when I was a child. He’d hug me and rub his rough face against my soft skin, and I’d laugh because it tickled. When I felt it now, it was nostalgic and sickening at the same time. He isn’t the soft man I thought he was.

One time, he left me a lemon slice.

I was exhausted that morning, and I thought my grogginess was playing a prank on me. He told me to bite into it. When I did, the flavor stabbed my tongue, and my face scrunched up so much my teeth hurt. I was very much wide awake after that. My dad always worked hard no matter how sour the fruits of his labors seemed. But he had to work hard as an immigrant. Otherwise, for him, there’d be no life worth living. As strange as he was, it inspired me to work hard.

One time, he left a bowl of grapes for me.

College was the hardest part of my life. My mother wasn’t home, my mental health worsened, and I wondered if anyone would still care about me. There was a day when I was studying advanced equilibria for a chemistry exam. I was stressed, cold, and hungry. I knew I desperately needed to shower, but I didn’t want to leave my desk. I had to get this concept down. He set the grapes down and pulled a heavy blanket over my shoulders.

“Take care of yourself,” he huffed. “How can I be sure you’ll be as independent as you say if you can’t fulfill your basic needs on your own?”

One time, he left a slice of pear for me.

When my mother left to visit family overseas, I was worried about the duration of her stay. My anxiety had peaked, and I hadn’t been without my mother for more than a week. She was my rock, and I was never comfortable sharing personal issues with anyone else. I cried every night. The time I cried during the day, my dad caught me sitting in the corner of the kitchen. He took one look at my tear-stained face and handed me a slice of the pear he was eating. It slipped out of my hand and onto the floor. I stilled, waiting for him to yell at me.

“Just know,” he said, picking it up and throwing it away. “That reality is quite different from your imagination. It’s simpler. And very boring.”

I live by that quote to this day.

One time, he left an uncut mango for me.

It was a humid summer day. He called me downstairs and taught me how to cut it. It was slippery and very sticky, and I feared my hand would slip and the knife would cut me. My dad was a chatterbox throughout the whole process. It’s from his undiagnosed ADHD, as well as his undiagnosed OCD, depression, and anxiety. He talks for hours about his life stories– my personal favorite being his kite flying and cricket playing days. One day, he spoke about his own father. My mother told me the man was cruel and viscious, and my dad’s tone being filled with poison solidified that description. There were days when he hid from his father’s menacing stare. The terror of having to hide from someone you’re supposed to trust left a hole in his heart. 

One day, there will be nothing on the counter.

While he doesn’t show obvious affection like my mother does, his giving me fruits during the hardest times of my life is proof enough that he cares about me. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to lose him. Eventually, I will. Everyone leaves at some point. As a result of his abusive father, he became violent towards my mother. He rarely was violent towards me and my sisters, but his loyalties were often foggy. As I watch him grow gray hairs, become shaky as he stands, walk closer towards me just so he can see my face, something in me rattles with unease. 

My father shares fruits with the family. Do I care about him? I don’t think so. Do I appreciate him? In some aspects. Do I respect him? Again, in some ways. He gives me half an orange, a slice of pear and apple, a handful of blueberries, peach and lemon slices, and a bowl full of grapes. And sometimes he teaches me how to cut a mango. He’s broken into little pieces, but I know with this gesture that he’s trying to change. Slowly, but surely.