I think of my father every time I fly. During the safety presentation when navy clad flight attendants remind me that I have to put my own air mask on before I can help someone else. That I need to save myself before I save anyone else. That when you push aside what you want to do and think of what you need to do- in order to survive, that you don’t have a choice- you have to put yourself first.

My father and I do not speak. Actually, that sounds far different than what actually happens. I do not speak to my father. And since I do not speak to him, it is hard for him to speak to me. So, we do not talk. Ever. We live in the same city, we drive the same streets and we do not talk. The last time I talked to him on the phone was three years ago. The last time we talked face to face? I can’t remember. Maybe five years ago? He talks with my mother (whom he’s divorced from), and he talks to my brother. But we do not talk. We don’t talk because we are different and the same. We are too different when we should be similar and too similar when differences would help.

It’s funny- funny in the way that sad things sometimes are, that when people hear that I do not talk to my father they assume the worst, first of him- that he’s an awful man, someone not fit to be a father. And when I tell them that is not true, he is not an awful man, then they assume the worst of me. That I’m selfish, that I don’t value time or elders, that I’m too self absorbed to feel the weight of my choice on my shoulders. This isn’t true either. The truth is somewhere muddled between the years, between a thousand conversations that went the wrong way, layered between choices that can’t be undone, acts I can’t forget.

I realize that my reasons for not speaking with my father come across as small to many. They come across as petty, as insignificant justifications for a choice that’s far larger and more important than I appear to give credit to. My head rings with a hundred voices telling me “you will regret this“, or “life is too short“, or  the hardest to hear- “my father passed away and you are wasting your time with yours“.  I want to tell these people that I appreciate their words, that I take them in and keep them close- but that their father is not mine and that I live each day fully aware- that each day that my father and I do not talk is not a victory for me, but a loss for both of us.

Every single day I’m aware of the fact that my father and I don’t speak. Every. Single. Day. It’s not painful as it once was, nor do I find comfort in this routine. Instead, it’s like a weight I’ve grown used to wearing. Like a necklace I never thought I’d wear but now can’t take off. I’m always aware of him. I wake each day ready for change. I hope that he has decided to meet me somewhere in the middle, that he’s now wanting to make the changes that he needs for me to be a part of his life. And when I find myself standing there, somewhere in the middle, holding an olive branch and he’s no where to be found? It breaks my heart.

Which is why, when I find myself cushioned deeply in my seat, intently focused on the flight attendants in the navy suits who have once again reminded me that I have to save myself first- I wipe away my tears, adjust my seat belt and prepare for take off.