Celebrating my father’s 62nd birthday
While I’m aware that he’d say, “What does my age matter at this point,” I feel the youth and the aging of his sixties so much more this year, now that I’ve entered my thirties.
He retired earlier this year, from baggage handling for Southwest Airlines in upstate New York. His body isn’t tired yet, but I think he expressed that the company of people in their mid-twenties has worn thinner. I get a kick out of the way his coworkers have kept him young these last several years, playing Nintendo Switch on their breaks, cranking new music on their Bluetooth speaker, teaching him slang. I wish he wasn’t guided into more right wing edges of YouTube or emboldened to go maskless, in an airport no less.
He visited me in New York for the first time since I moved back in 2018. He’s anxious, being in the city, claustrophobic and trapped in subway cars and between crowds and buildings–something I hadn’t seen before, interpreting his actions and distance as dislike when no explanation could be articulated. He’s gotten better at expressing himself. We went to lunch with my mom and sister, met Jason at a wine bar and shared real stories for once, caught a Yankees game together the next day. I don’t think he cared about the baseball much (my sister was STOKED and we saw some baseball making home run history).
My dad found his birth mother earlier this year. After losing a trail with a private investigator, years ago, he got a phone call this February from a half brother, one of two. He’s since gone to her house in New Mexico to meet her. I’m not ready to share her story yet, or call her “grandma” as my parents seem expectant for. I will go visit his siblings, these “cousins,” and her in Colorado this September, transmission rates supporting. I’ve only left here a handful of times since spring 2020, four times by car, once by plane. It’ll make him really happy if it works out.
It’s Tuesday and I found some time to think about him. We gesture the same, talking with our bodies, throwing ourselves physically into a story. I notice that he’s the only one from home who is attuned to the family cat who came to Brooklyn with me, recognizing her autonomy, her feelings and personhood when he goes to approach or pet her. He loves laughing and is unnervingly good at eye contact. I’ve got his nose and eyes.
I don’t have a lot to say I want to share about my parents usually, not in public. I’m glad I could show my dad where I live, the apartment that’s renewed for a fifth lease, tell some stories and show places I go to. It was good to connect in my home, not my childhood one.
I recorded a video singing and wishing happy birthday to him this morning and texted before work, showing the view out the window, sending good vibes, telling him what would be ahead in my day. He texted back soon after. I think he likes that I sent a video even more than getting a phone call. Lots of love.