After mom and dad divorced, dad moved into Vivian's apartment. One of my visits stands out. He would have been younger than I am now. He was a nervous man, suspicious and gullible. It is a family secret that I'll never know why he never went back to school after the third grade. He was living with a crazy woman who acted as a dependent sick, bedridden child. Her two grown boys were stealing dad's money to buy drugs. His fashion style was like Archie Bunker's, same white shirt and 50's vintage hat.
I remember feeling obliged to visit and not feeling comfortable in such a turbulent environment with all the shouting and arguing.
Dad asked me, "You want to go with me to the store?"
This I learned was code for let's go to 7-Eleven and play the lottery. He favored the scratch-off games and knew them all by name. The games had names like "Treasure Hunt," "Set for Life," and "Money Rain," The colorful cards were splattered with flamboyant messages designed to lure the gullible. He acted like a kid, like he studied the candies in the concession counter at the Saturday matinee.
He carefully took yesterday's cards out of his wallet and presented them to the store clerk. He'd already calculated his winnings and wanted the clerk to run them through the official lottery scanner and place his cash winnings in his hand.
He smiled and said, "$23.00. Yesterday was a good day."
He gave the twenty-three dollars back to the clerk and said, "We'd like 10 Treasure Hunts, 10 Set for Life, and three Money Rains for my son."
Those little scratch-off cardboard possibilities made him giddy with excitement. Out to the parking lot, we saddle up on a retaining wall with our bounty. That day was not our lucky day. As I remember, we had zero winners. I remember my dad being sad and frumpy. I said nothing. He tried to show me part of his world, which gave him hope. And I remember feeling embarrassed by how he acted.
Now it is too late. Too late to be tender. Too late to express love. I let my chance to soothe my dad's suffering slip away. I regret not hugging my dad in that 7-Eleven parking lot.
This short flash non-fiction essay is meant to help remind our future selves to be fractionally better than before. It points to where I want to work on my mental fitness. It is a reminder to operate in the world with love and compassion and includes a tip to help when caught up in the world’s uncontrollable chaos. Please, continue the conversation anytime: will@kestrelcreek.com.