My Dad and I don't Talk

Most people see me and my dad from the outside. They see our cold empty gestures and meaningless arguments. They judge our breakfast banters and cold morning shoulders. We are labeled as a problematic father daughter relationship. We are part of a falling apart family that can't run smoothly. Apparently we can't accept our differences. 

So it looks like I hate the dam fellow when I get stressed out and blame him for my inner prefectionist. I scream and rage that he pushes me too hard, and makes me do things I hate like dumb sports and calculous. I rant about his nagging and I condem his hovering. Then when he retaliates with his hatred of my difficulties. He storms and fumes and smokes away pent up anger giving the illusion he is burnt out of family, and his dreams have turned to stone obligation.  

They can't see from the outside I stress about grades because its the best way I know how to please him. I played soccer for nine years and hated every minute of it, because if he was coach I was never going to let him down. I saw his face when he learned I wanted to save the environment just like him, and I fought to get into the classes that would kill me trying to save what was dying. And I felt his connection when I sat in his desk chair, and saw what he sees, and learned he would never tire of an absolute passion, and he saw that I was right there beside him wanting the same life. 

And we don't talk.

We walk through the woods in silence. We hear the trees, and the fallen leaves. We feel the earth dying. And there is no need for words. There is an understanding that runs deeper than language itself, and its all said with no words at all.

Call me a teenage brat, and I'll call you a paranoid perfectionist, but I know there's something that can't be seen by anyone who doesn't know my dad the way I do.

The End

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