Dad's birthday

Yesterday was the last day of April 2010. It will never again be April 2010. I had that thought as I was lighting up a candle in the church yesterday. The church that’s close to Grandma K.

For my non-existent readers - I'm not exactly religious but I like the traditional Orthodox church, with its decorations, woodwork, quiet peacefulness, pools of lit candles, and the scent of incense. It's particularly relaxing to go on a work day when most people are at work and the only people are the woman who sells candles in the church, and the old lady sitting on a bench under a blooming cherry tree in the church garden, greeting the occasional visitor with a "Christ resurrected!" 26 days after he did so. That was supposed to be a capital "h", I think. H. Yes.

Dad turns 61 today. Our relationship became a little bumpy a couple of months ago when I - driven by feelings of unactualization, and the typical for me need to avenge people who have hurt me - decided to get even with him for the way he treated me when I was younger. I yelled at him and called him names to show him what it feels like. But the reality is that he is not like that anymore. He is not that aggressive anymore. I don't know if it's because of his disease or because of seeing things differently after you've lived a little longer. Either way, the reality is such that now, no matter how mean I've been to him, he's treating me nicely and he's trying to make amends. And no matter how much I've been disregarding his attempts in the past couple of months, he keeps trying is doesn't give up.

Today is his birthday. Mom has a day shift at the hospital so it's just him and I. In the morning I was thinking about asking him to go to lunch - the two of us, feeling that would be a good thing for both of us. And then, right before I was going to ask him, he asked me the exact same thing. I told him that I was just about to ask him the same thing, and I think he felt good. So did I.

When I was walking with him to the restaurant and back, and while we were having lunch there and the waitress was taking our orders and bringing our food, I didn't feel a string of shame or embarrassment. In fact, I felt proud that I'm going out with my dad to eat out and to mark his day. And I think this is the first time I felt proud instead of ashamed about my dad since I've been back. Of course, I still feel sorry for him sometimes. When I look at him eating slowly - a little older, a little more hunched forward than he was a few years ago; his right hand trembling, his hair a lighter shade of gray. He's the kind of man I would want to make an artistic photograph of. One of those sad ones I used to make. But not anymore. He's my dad. He's my dad and maybe Allen is right - maybe the reason I feel so sad about dad sometimes is maybe because I love him.