Sunburn
By Kristen Bartlett
Copyright © 1999, All Rights Reserved
"You were not there for me." My gaze
shifts to the station wagon, pulling out
of the driveway. Dad is in that
car--along with a box of clothes and a
TV set.
Seventeen years and only a television to
show for it. If I was a little
younger, a little more assertive, a
little more resistant to change, I'd go
after him. I don't, though; I'm too old.
I avoid the conflict, and what's the
use in stopping what's meant to be?
Instead I sit dejectedly, jaded in a
lawn chair on the porch. Mom's crying,
heated with anger. She's just like
me--we never cry when things are sad,
yet
it's the anger that subjects us to
tears. "Let him go," I say, and turn
toward
the rapidly disappearing figure o a
vehicle. "You were not there for me," I
whisper the truth of a father who
misunderstood me, and though I wouldn't
usually admit it, I misunderstood him as
well. His disappearance from the
dinner table isn't going to stop the
world from spinning. The sun will rise
and fall as it always did. It's just the
ability to be stagnant--to look at
this with an indifferent eye. "And the
sun will fall whether you were there
for me or not."
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