The Record: Skeleton

He is so thin, my father

He is so thin, my father. 
 
I see him from across the room; he’s sitting in a large, wood-carved chair, cushions covering it. He looks up at me as I walk in. He smiles when he sees me, but he can’t really talk. 
 
How many times has he almost died now? Three? Four? It seems that so many years of smoking and drinking have pickled his insides, and I have come to believe that he will never actually die. 
 
But, of course, he will. 
 
When I was a young kid, maybe 9-years-old, I used to daydream about him bringing a gun and his anger to the house. In the dream, I miraculously took the weapon from him and proceeded to beat him with it, winning the day. 
 
I don’t want to touch him now, but when I get closer, I put one hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me, and I wonder what is left inside his mind. In his gaze, there is recognition, and there is also fear. But also, there is a sort of awe, his eyes wide, like a child’s. 
 
I go to dinner. My step-family is being supportive, and they tell me things like I know how you must be feeling. I start crying because I know he’s mistreated them for decades, and I cry because I know that whatever he did to them, it was worse for us. We’re the ones with that volatile blood running through our veins. We’re the ones who lived in fear long before we reached some of our earliest birthdays.  
 
When we get back to the house, I smoke some weed and lock the door, and for the first time ever, I grieve him. He will die. 
 
Eventually.