I’m in my father’s basement, in is workroom. I haven’t even told him anything about my latest life ventures, including leaving work, I guess.
I’m stuttering to talk to him. I have trouble seeing him. I collapse into a chair and he helps me sit down in it.
At some point in this our terse conversation, Dad pins me back against the wall with a cabinet so I am forced to look at him.
He shines the light directly in my face. He has amazing solid brown eyes; it’s like the first time I see his eyes; I’m excited at how beautiful they are. I try to tell him this and he doesn’t hear.
He interrupts me with curt criticism.
I confess to quiting work.
“I haven’t been working for 6 months,” I say, “except for a pity side-project. I work in therapy.”
He criticizes my calling it gossip.
Did I say gossip? I don’t remember well enough — perhaps I did; “I meant therapy.”
Maybe he’s going to find a job for me in his office — but, I’m not going to accept that.
He lights candles to increase the intensity of the light until he accidently lights a Chinese firecracker than ignites and burns down to a whistle; the whistle blows loud and steady into my awakening.