Eclectic Lesson

Regarding the Happiness of Loved Ones | November 27, 2011

Abigail asked me about my father last week. Just a simple question that could’ve been easily answered with “Yes” or “No”, but her inquiry left me frozen and dumbfounded. Never before I would’ve guessed those three words would become my permanent weak spot.

-”Is he happy?”

A special kind of frustration follows me around for being unable to answer that question. Part of me knows for a fact I will never be able to do so. Am I wrong for that? Am I an ungrateful son? Are we all selfish for living our lives despite others people’s sacrifices?

There’s a particular memory stockpiled in the deepest corner of my mind. Back when we were kids and my parents had divorced, and my mother had kept the house, along with our custody. We rode with out father in his old car, back to his house in the slums. We never got to see the inside of his house, but that was enough to shake our insides for the rest of our lives. I know at least part of me died that day.

I find myself frequently making up fantasies about my father. In those dreams I am older, wiser, and less self-centered. My father still smiles, but his hair is grayer than ever. He continues working on the family business, downtown. I visit him on a busy day and surprise him with a pair of plane tickets. I ask him to come with me on a trip around the world, for which I had been saving for years now. He declines at first, ashamed of my offer, but I persuade him to come.

We pack our bags and head off to the unknown for the first time in our lives. There are so many places ahead of us; so many arrivals and departures, so many unfamiliar faces and unexpected situations. I try my best to translate for him and talk him about the architecture of each city we visit, but I never disappoint him, no matter how much I screw up.

But Dad is an old man now. His legs can’t take much walking, so our trips are short-lived. We sit down on public benches each time he gets tired, gazing at the cityscape. We return to our hotel room early everyday, and have long talks before going to bed. Still, as I lie in bed awake each night, I discover that each and every day we share is golden.

This is where the fantasy dissolves, as if it had run short of film. And one tricky question spawns many more:

Is it ever too late for us?
Can we really escape from our squalor?
Is it all just a fantasy I try to impose on others, so they can be happy?
Is our happiness just a plane ticket away, and can it be achieved so easily?

And even trickier answers emerge:

Perhaps it’s only me that’s broken.
Maybe I’m just projecting my cracks on my loved ones.
And fixing is just a hobby.

Regardless of the outcome, I know there is an ultimate truth that I will carry on my back forever. That most of the joys in our lives are the costs of others´. They deserve a chance too. I know someday those two plane seats will be taken.

But I too, know, how much more I owe than I can give.

---