There he sits doing his best
impersonation of Aaron Hotchner*, sans Kevlar and sans not one but two
Glock-17s, throwing death glares in the specific direction of the TV and in the
general direction of the world, being and nothingness.
The news is on again. Of course,
because he never ever turns it off. It’s a tape on a loop. He is wearing his
perpetual frown – I have a feeling he was born with it. I’d have asked Gran but
she is dead, alas, and I don’t dig séances.
I see his frown deepening and I can feel the tension in the air, taut as
a thin wire ready to trip up whatever idiot finds himself running towards it.
That idiot happens to be me 90%
of the time, and today is no different…that pesky voice in my head ill-advisedly
goads me on to carpe this diem, to finally take destiny in my hands and
stand up to the most humourless man I know (that’s not true, but I deem it so
when I know I’m going to lose the battle).
I gather all my youthful (and
misdirected) courage and start a war of words that seemingly has no end and is
well-nigh ready to explode and take my head with it, absolutely gratis. No, father, I say in a voice made loud
by false bravado (ah, the young! The silly, silly, very silly young….tsk, tsk,
when will they learn?), it’s not all
their fault—their being the faceless political multitude—we have to be accountable for our actions.
At this, my father nearly loses
his frown in shock. Had somebody really interrupted him?! But then as his frown
takes shape again, I quickly begin to lose my courage. Well, let’s put it this
way, it crumbles shamefully, but I squeakily continue despite all reason
telling me to, screaming at me to – desist. But nooooo, noooo sir – the stars
have aligned to mark this day as my last day on this beautiful earth.
I briefly eye the 15th
floor balcony making a micro-second decision that it would certainly behoove me
to make that jump, parachuteless, than face my father’s wrath.
But I am chicken, without spicy
wings. While I faintly hear myself talking about responsibility and destiny,
the (my?) voice getting increasingly thinner with dread, my eyes fall upon a
beautiful, sparkling square of purple, begging me to take notice, filling my
rapidly collapsing lungs with hope.
And when he rolls up his sleeves,
ready to finish me…I mean the argument, I make a dash for that square of hope,
like Jonty Rhodes going for a catch. Briefly, I picture myself levitating and see
a halo around my nearly supine, nearly superhuman form. While my father is
distracted by my heretofore unseen acrobatics, I break a bit of that elixir and
offer him a bite.
And immediately I hear angels singing and the crickets, too,
welcoming me back to earth, to this wide, wonderful world.
I chuckle conspiratorially with the chorus of
regal purple, the crickets and the universe as the chocolate of the gods melts
in my mouth; there may have been a warm hug or two in there somewhere, and I
think to myself – my old man, he is really just a softie!(And because I love you, and this life, I'll give you a simple little recipe for a hot chocolate for those long winter days. You need three rows of Cadbury's Dairy Milk (I had a Roast Almond and a Fruit & Nut - I chose the almond. Two heaped spoons of Cadbury's Cocoa powder, cinnamon rolls and milk to bring it all together. Heat the milk, melt the chocolate in the milk after you've taken the saucepan off the heat, add the Cocoa powder, grate some cinnamon in and bring it nicely to a boil. It should be super thick, pour into espresso cups - any more and you'd likely never sleep again!)
*belongs to CBS/ABC, Jeff Davis & Co; not to me (who said anything about life being fair?)
