I threw away the core of my apple nonchalantly, listening to the bright noises shouting at me from the end credits of a western movie my dad had finished watching. He commanded me to clean up a mess that wasn't mine, which was typical during this time of night especially after dinner, and proceeded to chuckle as if he knew his "orders" irritated me. There are many times where I can almost feel that my dad knows what I'm thinking or how I'm feeling, and that little chuckle that escaped his 61 year old windpipe told me that this had been one of those times. I washed a couple plates, and as the end credits of his western flick faded, he smiled and playfully exclaimed, "Django!" referring to a movie I'd partly watched with him before. (My Dad's voice was huge, and he'd always been a great orator because of it.)
"Dad, (which probably came out to be "Dah," considering that is how I normally say it) did you think Django was good?" I asked, while simultaneously washing my last plate.
"Yeah, it was good." He replied, curling his lower lip, as if to express to me that he'd seen better.
"Dad why do you even like western movies?" I questioned.
It was unexpected, but he smiled and looked me in the eyes. It was a smile of complete yet subtle sincerity, a smile that you wouldn't expect a 61 year old like him to possess. He pressed his index finger up against the center-piece of his glasses to adjust them to the preference of his tired eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. He hesitated at first, but began to speak once again.
"Why do you like the shows you grew up with, like, uh, what was it called, that-"
"Dragonball, Dad" I interrupted. (Which I didn't find too rude, because I'd often found myself in situations like this, where i'd have to finish my Father's sentences,)
"Yes, that one." He exhaled.
"So you grew up with western movies?" I asked eagerly.
"Yeeah, I did." He laughed. "I'm going to Food For Less, to uh,-"
"Papayas, Dad?" I inquired.
"Yeah," he answered, smiling.
"Be safe." I stated before he opened the garage door and left.
I found this moment to mean so much to me than I thought it would. I pondered whether or not I truly spend enough time talking to my father. I thought about how close we'd gotten this past year, and how easily it was for him to see how I felt. Most importantly, I'd thought about his age, and how he was getting weaker and weaker. I thought about how he'd ask me, "Jon, do you ever worry about me?" on late nights that I'd spent held up in my room.
It was times like this that I both hated and was appreciative of the way I thought about things, or how my mind could get stuck on the same thoughts and ideas for hours on end. I tend to think about what would happen if the people around me died, for death could happen at any minute. But it pains me to know that I don't have the power to say much about anything to certain people. My thoughts often flood my mind, because of the way I think. I admire it, just as much as I resent it. But i'm thankful, especially because I owe it to my father, and it is because of this, that I wonder about if thoughts flood his mind as mine do to my own, I wonder about if he'd spent countless nights awake, thinking about thoughts that he'd for so long wanted to have forgotten.
