Thank You

I don’t want him to see me weak. I don’t want him to see me struggle. But the sweat on my brow and the dark, damp circles on my shirt can’t hide the sweltering heat in the room I chose to be in. Dad walks in to say goodbye, he’s leaving to go on an errand and he sees me suffering and he starts suffering and fixing. He knows there’s a fan in the other room and it is the most direct and obvious way for him to reduce my suffering and therefor his own. I want relief but I don’t want it from him. He’s carried the helper weight for long enough. I hear the phrase, “That won’t help.” swell in my mind. The pressure building, the aching in my temples, building the cutting phrase that will hurt him enough, and give him permission to set down the burden, at least the one attached to me. I hold it back, I see Calvin sitting in my seat at the computer, I see me adjusting the fans angle, speed, and distance. Desperate to provide my beautiful son a bit of relief from the weight we all carry. The slapping phrase resolves into a smile and loving eye contact with my Dad standing 3 feet away and I say, “Thank you” instead.