Dad said he’s proud of me.
I well up inside at the words.
What the hell is he proud of me for.
And why should it matter?
I’m fucking thirty.
Part of me thinks, oh Dad, I don’t need that anymore.
Part of me thinks, what have I done that’s any good?
Part of me thinks, I really am something, aren’t I.
And part of me deep down
A very early, primal part
Starts jumping up and down and clapping her hands.
I have no success in work
I have no success in art
I have no success in home making
I have no successful mate
I have no success in health or beauty.
I do moderately well in most things.
How does a parent think?
Why does he feel proud?
Maybe he’s just happy I turned out okay
Maybe that’s all a good parent really hopes for.
And he was a good parent.
He still is.
A really wonderful parent.
I’m proud of him.