Because my father is breaking pots on the patio like a 5 year old throwing a tantrum.
And my mother is offering to buy him what he needs just so she can get out.
So she's flown off, he's still hissy fitting on the patio, and I'm thinking of making my escape to my room that he won't dare step foot in.
He knows he's not allowed.
He knows I'd rip out his eyes.
He's fucking up his project. Plant hanger. He's good at these. Really. Knot tying. He's the one who taught me square knotting which I parlayed into rent money for a good long while. He tied one knot for me while I watched.
And then told me to have at it.
And was never pleased with anything I've showed him since.
But he just snapped a line on something he was redoing.
ANd now he's stomping in the kitchen.
Banging cabinets and slamming doors and clomping around in echoey boots.
Why is it so easy to feel so old and so much like an 8 year old at the same time?
He's my constant reminder that I'm never going to be anything other than his scared child.