"Night Owl"

I never was one for sleep. That is I was never one for going to bed early. To my fathers perpetual dismay, I was a self proclaimed night owl. A fitting colloquialism since the average barn owl is a nocturnal predator. For the longest time I was proud of it, saying foolish things like, "I get my best work done at night." I made it a point to say things like that whenever I could, especially when Dad was within ear shot.

Dad was an early riser. The man worked his brains out everyday providing for his three children, with me being the youngest. We rattled him with our constant immaturity and he regularly irritated us with his inability to communicate. Skipping to the end of this droll cliché, he died. He died and I never got a chance to spend any time with him. I say "I" because my brother and sister got a lot of time with him. Mom and dad moved in with my sister for a number of years before they bought another home. My brother and his wife then moved into the basement and spruced it up into a livable mother-in-law suite. They were with them for over ten years. Mom and Dad visited me once after I got married a second time but then I never saw him again. I would talk to ma on the phone every week or so and dad would be nearby. At best he'd get on the phone because ma made him and he'd run the script on what he was supposed to say. How's the wife? How's the job? We miss you. Goodbye. That's how it always went. A perfunctory repetition that tricked the brain into accepting that everything was alright.

It wasn't long after that he died and I never got to express to him all of my frustration, then all of my anger, and finally all of my regret that we weren't closer. It's amazing how in the moment of anger you can feel completely justified and right, but after it passes you realize that the biggest jerk in the room is you. Once the show is over, it's too late to change the act.

It's been a few months now and my wife and I have moved into a singular small house hidden in the countryside. There are no city lights to dull the nighttime sky. No highway noises to drown out the animals that are heard as clearly as the wind that carries their sounds. Out here it is quiet. I think it would feel like peace and quiet if only my thoughts did not feel so tortured. I try to force the calm I need to feel, yet I cannot escape the frantic waves of my sub-conscience as they pull every terrible memory to the shore of my conscience. I did not have a bad dad, far from it. He was just odd and had trouble thinking straight. He had his issues sure but he was a good dad. I know I told him that a few times but it doesn't feel like enough. I wanted some time with him. I wanted him to make time for me. I wanted him to actually set it aside and enjoy the moment with me, his last son. Instead I always got left overs and the passing through but never any real time. An afterthought and not the reason for the trip. Again I know he meant well and that he was trying, but I just wanted a better connection with my Dad.

I've taken up writing on the second floor of our home. It's definitely therapeutic and often bittersweet. I have an amazing view of a forest, sunset, snow, rain, or sunshine on any given day. I look out a large window over a fine representation of nature. I even have a night owl that perches on the branch next to the frame that I can clearly see when the moon is full. He's startled me a couple times. With his wings spread he looks quite imposing. It's probably all for the best that he's here, I doubt I'll get much sleep anyway.