Even when she’s caught out I am still short of beckoning any remorse from her. She doesn’t feel it and it hardens me. I move on in mind and heart. Now I no longer sense her pulse in my future, no longer allow myself the comfort I have grown to take for granted.
She’s done wrong and she doesn’t beg forgiveness or plea for sympathy at her apparent weakness. There comes no, ‘I’m sorry I was drunk’ – no, ‘I’m sorry to have worried you.’ – In fact, all she’d said on the matter was, ‘I don’t want to argue.’
Who was? I was going to let her speak her tongue numb. My question was simple; why didn’t you tell me?
And with that comes the thought of high windows, sun comprehending glass; et cetera, et cetera… ad nauseam.
I never had a Father who taught through explanation, mine was a Father who I learnt from by example. It was pos-neg right from the fire up. He was someone who taught me to be good, honest and courageous; and thought I didn’t pick up any of those traits, I do feel that I, at least, know what they are. He was someone who showed me what it was to give up on a dream; he was the victim of consequence and apathy.
So I had to pick up on, more conversational, lead by example sorts that were closer to my own heart.
So enter Larkin, my Papa Phil, the father who taught me real, candid and gritty lessons. ‘Collected Poems’, is my New Testament, ‘Juvenilia’, my Old. Papa Phil is a brutally honest father, with a clear motive of deft truthfulness.
So… should I take my own advice, from previous posts? Should I call time on a forgone conclusion?
I’ll have to consult with old Papa Phil, to answer that one. As I said, not long ago, and learnt it well! – I trust in luck, not other people’s integrity.
Last night I was sorely disappointed but perhaps not irreparably so.
