Oh, dad.

Like any man at home with cruelty, my father has a sentimental side and so it was this morning, looking for some music for my 5 am ablution, I trawled through his collection of musicals and, finally, chanced upon a Brahms. It was years old, a Christmas edition with a celebrity fiddler. Had Karen bought it for him? The memory returned of Christmas shopping in a record store and Karen waving this cd at me, will he like this? My dad had no interest in classical music but for Karen, I welcomed her misguided assumption that father was like son, and heartily assented. Shopping with my lithe, my undeniably sexy wife, it felt then as if my father could like the Brahms, should like it, and I was pleased then with the slightly cruel, coercive feeling it lent me. Oh, dad. I put the cd on and entered the bathroom. There is nothing in here. He is waiting for death, planning to do it with no inconvenience to anyone else, having cleared the house of unnecessary furniture. Even the bathroom is empty. I hear the strains of Brahms under the door, matching them with my own. And then, in passing, my father behind the door, what the hell you playing that for? And with that truth, our truth, forever inherent in his tone, I evacuated in seconds.