My father never spoke to me in this way or any other. I had walked by the closet and seen him brushing the hair that was barely there—for work, like every weekday, his ironed slacks the same coffee brown, his slim ties laid on hangers like ants in a row. He would pluck a tie out and query me as my tiny head peeked from behind the door and my amateur opinion pleased him. Today was the day he told me he'd be leaving and he never spoke to me like that before. He never left in words, only actions, but this time he had to explain because how would I otherwise know.
He picked out an outfit for this day for some reason and asked me again which tie to wear. The black and white polka dot or the red. I said it didn't matter which one I picked, soon he wouldn't be there for me to choose. That's exactly why it mattered, he reasoned, because it was the last. The polka dots.
He found a chair and not just any chair but the one he sat in to pretend to read books and week-old newspapers, with his phone stuck in the crease, a secret to no one. I would ask him what was the good of reading about last week's news and he'd say he liked dissecting the past. He stayed buried in his shadows. He sat there and told me to sit on the sofa bed we used for guests. My aunt would sleep there too and complain about the air sticking to her wrinkles like honey globs. She came over once and we played a game of hide and seek and instead of hiding she sat on the couch in plain sight. As soon as I said okay ready and opened my eyes, I saw her. I stood there confused. Finally I said, why are you just sitting there and she said there's no use hiding from yourself. I rolled my eyes. Why'd she have to be so deep when all I wanted was to play.
I sat on the sofa bed and he looked at me with the eyes of a man whose shoes had been out the door. He sat there staring and then he spoke. He told me I knew what was happening. Mother made this decision not him and it was too late like it always was. If it were up to him he would stay so we could be normal and so I could keep helping him pick out ties. I didn't know him. There he goes trying to escape through a door with no holes. How did he think he could get away from his own brain.
A week later I left too. I told my mom I was going without a plan like he did. Somebody cared about me once. She laughed. And kept asking me where I was going and I told her nowhere she'd want to know, because she wouldn't follow me so why ask in the first place and let on the illusion of care. How could she know. Maybe I was going home.
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