painted on water

When I was a child, my father made me a most wonderful present; a small bow and arrow out of twigs collected from the trees he planted in the front yard before I was born. He carved grooves into the wood with one of the numerous files he owned and let me play with sometimes. He made the unladylike toy to celebrate no particular occasion, not to reward good behavior, but just because. I was delighted. I imagined that I was a girl version of Robin Hood or Pocahontas as I crouched on the edge of the yard in my shorts, firing my arrow at imaginary armies attacking my base. Unfortunately, since there were no identifying markings on the arrow, it would quickly become camouflaged by the myriads of other fallen branches, smooth sticks and carpets of deciduous leaves from seasons past when I tried to look for it. Then one day, the arrow was nowhere to be found. The snapdragons were collaborators with the enemy, so it was no use looking to them for aid. The junipers were treacherous, promising that my arrow was tucked behind the cobwebs, and then stabbing me as I reached my tawny arm to search for it between the branches. Alas, the arrow was lost forever. I felt that my dad was disappointed when I told him. I may have hurt his feelings, even though he promised he would make another one.

It seems that this is something I’ve gotten unintentionally good at these days. He often seems wounded as a result of how I’ve developed and continue to grow as an adult, and even more so at a lack of consistent communication. I’d rather not see my dad’s face express mini-stress patterns when I express my dreams to travel, nor hear the sadness in his voice in my head when I read messages from him asking if everything is ok when I haven’t responded to him in a few days. There seems to be a delicate balance of dependence and independence to adult child-parent relationships, and like that arrow which likely disintegrated by now, I haven’t quite found it yet.