Thursday, June 13, 2013


Have I ever told you about my dad?  
In my youth, when I was stupid and too full of myself, I didn't care much about my parents and their stories. I dismissed the quirky things that they did or said as just the part of them not being hip or understanding anything. My mom put too much pressure on us, and it was easy to dislike her. Dad was different. He listened. In the evenings he would come home, and mom would ask him: "You are not hungry, are you?" "No",- he would say - "I'm OK". Then he and I would go to the kitchen , where he'd make some warm pasta with farmer's cheese, sugar,  cinnamon and raisins. We would eat and talk about things. He, usually, had the same opinions as mom, but the way we worded them was entirely palatable. Our conversations never became hostile arguments.  
Thinking that God is also a parent, who seeks love and understanding of His/Her children, did wonders to my attitude towards mom and dad. They still didn't comprehend what I was doing with my life or accepted it. We still had terrible fights with my mother, among other cruel things that we did to each other. But now my parents became interesting to me. I asked them questions about our history, on both sides of the family. I began to understand, what made them the way they were.  
After I became pregnant, mom and dad left their comfortable life in New York and moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. We ended up living very close to each other, getting on each other's nerves and supporting each other. Dad was already 68. He was the one to go,  countless times a day, across the parking lot from their apartment to ours, bringing pacifiers, groceries, clothes and such. Kids and I spent most of our days in the parents' apartment, though, and that life, no matter how mundane it seemed at the time, now looks mighty good to me, full of heart and love. 

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