Dad

I remain unexpectedly home. With severe thunderstorms on the move last night, Dad phoned to say he would be more comfortable if I were to wait and drive down this morning. It's typical of him to worry about weather, but it suited me, because I was tired and sore from three days of painting.

During my teen years Dad was aloof and preoccupied with political ideals that repulsed me. His fastidiousness brought us into frequent conflict, because I left an artistic mess in my wake wherever I went. Only recently have I learned to keep our shared spaces clean out of respect, though his fussiness can still get under my skin at times.

After I came out Dad was the only member of my immediate family who stood up for me and expressed interest in my personal life. Since Mom's death, he has become more open and vulnerable.

We have always liked the same things—gardening, symphony concerts, good movies, the cottage, and even musicals—but now that he is fully retired we are actually finding time to spend together. We've even fielded the idea of traveling to Europe, first time for both of us, which would be awesome. When I tell him about my artistic pursuits, he says he wishes he had pursued a more creative path in life. I remind him he still has his health and energy, and most likely a good deal of time. He agrees.

Even two years ago I wouldn't have looked forward this way to spending a week with him. Whatever has changed between us, I'm grateful that we're becoming good friends.

I took this photo on Dad's 40th birthday, May 28, 1973. I was nine years old. I remember baking the cake and candying the violets.