take care

When my father left, he had me meet him at work and drive him to the airport. I assumed he was going on a business trip, as he so often did, flying away to exotic places, returning with souvenirs for everyone and stories to go around. I was eighteen and just out of high school.

We had a special bond, my father and I. I was his firstborn, and he'd often confide in me things I never quite understood. How could I? I was a kid. I didn't know anything else. But I remembered them. I always remembered. And it was a secret. He never asked me to keep it secret, but I knew. We both knew. This was just for us. Maybe he was preparing me for something. I'll never know. I just know he was unhappy. He probably cheated on my mother when he was away.

He never seemed more vital than just before and just after his vacations. When I met him at work, he looked old and defeated. He kept trying to say something, then shifted away, or kept it vague. "You'll have to be a better man than I was," he said, over and over. "You'll have to be a better man." And by the time we were at the airport I knew he wasn't coming back. I said nothing the whole drive.

He told me to take care of everyone--my mother, my brother, my sisters. He said he hoped one day I'd understand, and then said, "No, I hope you never do. What was the name of that girl you've been seeing? You be good to her." Then he looked torn for a moment before holding out his hand to shake mine. "I love you, son," he said.

I just nodded. He wiped at an eye and left, through the security gates, and I drove home in silence.