For reasons that cannot be public, my father and I got confused just now. That is, someone thought that I was he and that he was me.
It was very interesting, for reasons more than just the aforementioned Don-ness.
The car got fucked up on our drive here. That’s not necessarily true, because Mom thinks the brakes were an issue during the week (the rear discs seized), but I made it seem like I was really sorry (I was driving, I used the never-used parking brake, I rubbed the front tire against a curb). The fiction had purpose though…
I was calm, because he was not. I was hugs, because trying to reason with him would have just made his blackness scream louder, deafening the deaf man beyond his heart. I was apologetic, because the Daddy-ness in him would connect to it; I knew it would pull the better parts of him, pull the better parts of him past the flaws, past the anger, past the anxiety and confusion. I was who I needed to be, when he was who he was.
I thought that would just be the case with my Mom on this trip, who still seems too worn, too used up, too tired. I guess not.
That’s why the confusion is so interesting. As I was being confused for Don, I was acting the Don.