The Old Man's Home

The Old Man’s Home Although he knows that he’s been living his life aimlessly, he still smiles and lives carefreely. He allows life’s big ups and downs to throw him here and there, and it never worries him. “I am not a loser,” he exclaimed.

“Just joking, I love you, and you always provided for the family,” I said. I know he never tries to get others to sympathize with him. He is aware of the time he is doing on earth and that alone is enough for him.

“Living an aimless life is not the problem. I believe the problem is in those who do not care whom to hurt; those who only care about getting what they want. The meaning of life is in its meaninglessness. The more we seek meaning in here, the more we get far from it.”

“So should we forget about the meaning and stop searching for it?” I asked.

“Not really! Better have your way, son!”

Every morning, he sits on the porch, scanning the newspaper, having a cup of coffee. He did not like to read the news. Just the ritual of paging the newspaper makes him feel manly. He is, indeed, a real man. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have fought in the First World War. The great thing about our relationship is that we do not interfere in one another’s own business or decisions. We rarely give our opinions about some issues, but if I seek his advice, he’ll talk to me for long enough, so I go with an answer to what I came for.

He almost does not care about doing anything right or wrong. He only cares about how to love too well and wisely, in his unique way. I’ve always had this sort of mind that if I ever needed a heartfelt piece of advice about love, he would be my resort.

Through my recurrent visits, I always stop by the supermarket to get some groceries without forgetting his favorite beers. In summer evenings, we like to grab some beers while sitting on the porch. Sometimes, we sit in silence, and I never felt awkward. But he always breaks it just like the last time, when I saw him. He asked, “Have you ever struggled to leave home and go out there and deal with the world; I wonder how it makes you feel?”

“I do it every morning, but it never feels like a struggle of any sort.”

I wanted to ask him the same question, but his question contains the answer, so I did not bother to. Before, I did not dare to sit with him, for one reason; he was never open to discussing anything with anyone. But now, sitting with my old man makes me a lot more comfortable than being alone, for he always throws questions that would take me on a long journey of thinking; I also know that he is the only one who will never judge me or blame me for my foolish deeds.

“What about bringing a female perspective into our table, son?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I mean, we can ask your mother to join us here. She might still be in the kitchen.”

I loved the idea because I never sit with my old man and my mother around one table for the sake of just having a conversation, except for the rare dinners we had together. When I was around 14 to 17 years old living at my parents’ home, every morning after breakfast, I used to sit in the kitchen and have long conversations with my mother. It was my daily ritual before I start my day. As for my old man, all I had with him was a few mumbled words, and, of course, greeting him whenever I ran into him somewhere at home. It was too solemn.

With her soft voice which always sounds like music to my ears, “Good evening sweethearts!” She said.

My mother is here with her bright clement face.

“What are you talking about, boys?”

“Nothing mom. We just want you to sit here with us and leave the kitchen and all.”

“How are you feeling?”

I got confused. How come my father lives at the same place as my mom and he is asking this very question!

“Are you all right, Mama?”

“Yes, I am fine, son. Even if your father and I live under the same roof, we do not talk that much.”

It is not something new. I already know this. I just did not feel good about the way my father looked at mom and asked his question.

“Have you been in touch with your sister?”

“Oh, yes, mother. Every once in a while, we call. I miss her little daughter.”

“Me too. She is growing up. She will be a beautiful young lady.”

“I think we should all visit her soon, huh!”

With her well-known beautiful smile, she exclaimed, “Sure, my darling!”

“Then when?” My father asked.

As they continued talking, I was silent listening and enjoying it. It pleased me because it is a feeling that I never had as a child, and I will be happy to tell my sister about this. She needs her

share of this, too, as much as I do. It got way better when my mother joined us. I could not get enough of it that night.

Suddenly, my mom rushed to the attic and brought some of my childhood stuff, among which was a toy that I loved so much. My old man bought it for me seeing that I cried for it. Still, he did not buy it for me just like that.

“See, sweetheart. This is your best-loved toy, remember?”

“Oh yes, mother. I do.”

She did not know the story of that toy. When she first saw the toy in my hands, I was happily ignoring all about the sadness I had before embracing it. I remember that he had me dig and clean the backyard for a week. At the time, I hated him so very much because I was questioning what kind of a father he is to put me in such a harsh experience just because I wanted a toy. I did not get it.

My father took the toy and looked at me, “Do you remember how you got this toy, here?”

“Yes father, I surely do. it was hard to get, though,” I answered.

“You might have hated me at the time, but I took the pain and the blame of your hate and judgment. I had to be patient and wait till you understand the reason why I did all I did when I was raising you, son.”

“You are still raising me, father.”

“You know, the entire world and this house with its walls are nothing to me, son. My home is your mother, and my walls are you and your sister.”

I stood speechless; my emotional abilities could resonate with anything in the world except having this with my father, for it felt all new to me.

“Yeah, father. You have built a strong wall and it will always be,” I said without looking at his eyes.

It felt as though hugging my father for the first time; it was a real hug. A father and son’s hug which none of us wanted to let go of.

My mother’s eyes were filled with tears of joy.

He whispered to my ear, “The attic will give you all the answers you need. I have kept everything there just for you to understand.”

“I got it, pa.”