Dichotomy

Darkness | Lena Erenfeicht | Digital

Dichotomy by Ashton Dodge

Dear Dad,

A parent’s love may know no bounds, but I think my affections outnumber yours. You are the picture of stability; a happy life, a happy home, a happy family. You are a game of catch, fishing, smiling, laughing, dancing. A parent should be many things and you are all of them.

I stand on your feet and you pick them up effortlessly. I’m getting big, but you cast me into the air, far far away. You like to swim laps at the county pool, but I miss you, so I grab onto your back like a pilot fish to a vicious shark. Arms in great arches, splitting the water. I can’t hold on -- you’re slippery with sunscreen -- and am left behind snorting water and giggling. My head slips below the water. You came back for me because that’s what a parent should do.

At night, I bathe with my twin. There is a red plastic boat riding the soapy waves, and it catches both our young eyes. We scuffle in the tub and an accidentally well-placed blow bursts red rivers from my nose. It’s metallic and warm and the tub turns pink like the picturesque hydrangeas along the house. You pick me up, stuff tissues into my hands, caressing and comforting. Only appropriately, because that’s what a parent should do.

I play in the basement. The black and white tiles freeze my bare feet, and they dare not stray near the dark unfinished portion of the basement. There are loud clangs from there, “only the heater, buddy,” so I cook wooden meals for American Girl dolls under fluorescent light. You’re back from your trip overseas, loom down the grand oak stairs to play with me. I don’t like the game we play, because that’s what a parent could do.

Your Son