I want Sunday dinner’s in the dining room that my mom had my dad expand so we could fit more people around the two tables we pushed together. I want my cousins and aunties and our high school friends crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Scooping potato salad and clawing at lettuce with sliced apples amidst a buffet of salmon or bbq.
I want to be angry at you for grounding me the entire weekend. Propping pillows beneath my comforter to look like a sleeping body so I could ride a bicycle with two flat wheels 10 blocks away to a local house party. Where I stayed awkwardly for one hour before getting nervous and heading home.
I want you telling me like it is. A point form list of what our family needs to work on. Your clipboard clamping down notes for us to work on as a family like we were a sports team or your staff. I want me poking fun at this style of parenting and making you laugh. Making sure you know I got the point.
I want to see my mother sweating in the kitchen, cooking dish after dish for a family get-together. A domain I didn’t enter because I didn’t have a thick enough skin for pointed instructions. I want to see the pride in her smile when people said everything she cooked was delicious.
I want my old childhood home stairs that creaked halfway up. The pile of laundry that grew on the floor from my mom throwing towels and clothing over the top banister.
I want my dad driving me to hockey or baseball. The chats we had where he gave advice that included subtle compliments. Nothing too sappy. No words steeped too high to cause ego. The sun settling into a blue violet from golden pink as we pulled into our long drive way.
I want Christmas in September where my mom and aunties decorated the entire house to figure out what decorations to keep or get rid of. A huge turkey dinner on a hot September weekend that caused the walls to sweat. Everyone wore red and brought a ten dollar gift to swap during ndn bingo.
I want the pantry stocked full of food. Cans upon cans, gathering dust with expiry dates looming. Ripped open cereal boxes. Containers of spices and rice and pastas and flour. A favourite hiding space when I was small.
I want the house buzzing with conversation and constant news cycles retelling headlines on the tv. I want the chance to have a conversation with my dad while he rests in his recliner before I meander to the kitchen counter to watch my mom, auntie and sisters playing scrabble or rummy.
I want the irritation of your constant worry and fretting over every decision I make. An attempt to keep me safe by trying to convince me to do nothing. I can feel my eyes roll, a phantom reaction to your overprotective care and anxieties. I want to wallow in understanding now that I have a toddler.
I want to doodle cartoons on the notebooks you have on your computer desk. Using your best fountain pens to draw a three dimensional cube, mariner’s star, or anime face. I want you to tell me to stop doing that because you have important notes on your desk. I want to never listen and just keep doing it.
I want to see the photos of me you had pinned to the bulletin board next to your home office desk. I criticized the light foundation I chose to paint my face with as a 14-year old but all you saw was my smile.
I want to see you light up a smoke after our ball games, chatting with the other dads. Always the cool guy but never really aware of it. As the sun set during those summer nights, you stood there aglow.
I want things to not change but they already have. I have grieved the shift in our Sunday dinners becoming smaller. I miss my relatives who have moved away. I miss the feeling of weightlessness in terms of what was expected of me. I will miss some freedom.
But when I feel like it’s too much, I remember the wrinkles in the corner of your eyes. The moles on your dark skin that seem navy blue. I remember the way you wanted to lift my problems away but knew not to. And instead affirmed your belief I’d get through it. I remember you telling me that I had to do what’s right for me when I broke up with a long term partner. My mom didn’t have the words, she passed the receiver to you. We spoke for over an hour about how important it is to live the life you want.
I need you to know, this is the life I want. Even when you were so mad at me. Even when we didn’t speak. Even when there were tough years. I’m glad we got through that.
I want things the way they were but this is what we have. I’ll take everything I can get. Every second, every memory, every last moment. I want you to know I want it all.