Verbal Masturbation: I like to touch myself

I cannot accurately tell you the exact date my dad passed away. All I remember is it happened in the 10th grade. I received a phone call sometime after school, and a young-sounding police officer asked for a James Rollo. After I told them that I was, in fact, James Rollo, the cop on the other end of the line threw a ton of bricks at me. Oddly enough the bricks had no weight. If anything, all they did was slightly skin away at the fact my father was no longer with me. Dumbfounded, I handed the phone over to my mom with out saying a word.

I sat down at the kitchen table while my mom got the details of what happened. Apparently the cause of death was a sudden heart attack. He was found in his favourite chair in his basement apartment. He didn't suffer.

My mom hugged me and told me it was okay to cry. No tears found there way into my eyes, though. Not then. Not yet. I just remember going to bed that night and having a struggle with the bricks that were still hovering over me… I even went to school the next day and didn't tell anyone.

My dad was as much a ghost now as when he was alive. I mean, after my parents divorced, I saw my dad every weekend. Then it became every other weekend. Then it was once a month. My mom would always say that he does love us (my brothers and I); he just didn't know how to show it. Sometimes when our father would take us out, the out usually consisted of going to a mall and hanging out there. The odd time he'd take us miniature golfing--and that was a gift sent from the heavens.

As I grew older more and more bricks were thrown my way. One of the reasons why my parents separated, I found out, was because my father was an alcoholic. This isn't something a son should know about his father. Regardless of this I still had oceans of respect for my father. He didn't really know how to show us he loved us, no, but it was the small things he did that sang the melodies. Every time my dad and I spoke on the phone, there would always be a pseudo-argument about who had to hang up first when we had to part ways on the phone lines. Usually we had a system: we took turns hanging up first. But, usually because of me and my hate for hanging up on him, I would protest and he would end up having to do the honours. Sometimes he'd pretend to hang up just so he didn't have to hang up on me, but I always caught this and there would be a long silence on the phone--neither of us saying anything, neither of us wanting to shut each other out for the remainder of the night.

What really kicks my nuts, though, is the fact that I haven't visited his grave since the day he was buried. I still don't think I've cried over the fact that he's gone. I had one cry with Patricia, who wrote me a wonderful letter, and that was about it. I fear that if I paid my respects to his grave, all the years I haven't cried will come out like Niagara Falls.

* * *

When I was young, I loved visiting family and friends of the family. I didn't know wrong could exist in a family and I thought everyone was perfect at the peak of my naivety. The visits would always seem too short and I would always ache to go back.

This is kind of how I felt today visiting my parents at the camp ground with my grandmother and Sheryl. It was nice to say the least.

In other news I'm growing more frustrated at things. Got to nip them in the bud, as some would say.

Also. Twelve days until I'm in Kingston.