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the language of love (drabble: josh)
Aug. 22nd, 2004 06:51 pmWhen I was growing up, my father never talked much. He still doesn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was his reaction to being the youngest in a family with loud mouths and strong opinions; I'm not sure. But an entire day would sometimes go by without him saying more than three or four sentences. He just didn't bother speaking without a good reason, saving his words like water on a dayhike - only when necessary, never spilling even one.
He had other ways of getting his point across. He didn't need to speak when a simple smile would do just as much; he could cram more disapproval in one look than my uncle Dan could choke into a thousand hours of incensed drunken raving.
I always knew he loved me though. He never said it, not in ways most other people could detect; but he did, and I knew. All the little stuff he did for me, and my mom; there were always fresh flowers on the table, the kitchen was always clean. Sometimes I'd open my desk drawer and find a package of those cream filled chocolate cupcakes inside, or a mysteriously appearing twenty dollar bill.
I always remember turning around to find him standing behind me eating a cookie - sneaking it really, my mother was always on him about spoiling his dinner with cookies, but I never saw it happen. Really, I think it started to be a game they played after a while, because my mother was the farthest thing from a nag you'd ever hope to find.
There was an unspoken covenant between us about those cookies. I never said anything, and he always made sure to steal an extra one for me. He was just always there, you know? Not in an annoying way, but a comforting way, like gravity or the brick foundation to your house. On spring days when we spent weekends at home in Evanston I'd look up from doing algebra homework and he was already outside with the basketball - and I'd close the book and we'd shoot some hoop.
It's a little eerie, thinking about it; it's like he's tuned into some higher frequency, that he'd exchanged his words long ago in a pact with some unseen being for the ability to read peoples' minds instead.
He had other ways of getting his point across. He didn't need to speak when a simple smile would do just as much; he could cram more disapproval in one look than my uncle Dan could choke into a thousand hours of incensed drunken raving.
I always knew he loved me though. He never said it, not in ways most other people could detect; but he did, and I knew. All the little stuff he did for me, and my mom; there were always fresh flowers on the table, the kitchen was always clean. Sometimes I'd open my desk drawer and find a package of those cream filled chocolate cupcakes inside, or a mysteriously appearing twenty dollar bill.
I always remember turning around to find him standing behind me eating a cookie - sneaking it really, my mother was always on him about spoiling his dinner with cookies, but I never saw it happen. Really, I think it started to be a game they played after a while, because my mother was the farthest thing from a nag you'd ever hope to find.
There was an unspoken covenant between us about those cookies. I never said anything, and he always made sure to steal an extra one for me. He was just always there, you know? Not in an annoying way, but a comforting way, like gravity or the brick foundation to your house. On spring days when we spent weekends at home in Evanston I'd look up from doing algebra homework and he was already outside with the basketball - and I'd close the book and we'd shoot some hoop.
It's a little eerie, thinking about it; it's like he's tuned into some higher frequency, that he'd exchanged his words long ago in a pact with some unseen being for the ability to read peoples' minds instead.
