Instead, pull up a bucket. Ask a weird question. Sit in the silence. And wait.
But "quiet" was a mask. "Stoic" was a mask. "Busy with work" was a full-body disguise. tara and dad unmasked
Tara didn't flinch. She just nodded and said, "That must have been so heavy." Instead, pull up a bucket
For those who don’t know, Tara is my older sister—the one who moved to Portland to become a therapist and the only person in the family who uses words like "emotional container." I’m the younger one, the fixer, the one who always said, "Dad’s fine. He’s just quiet." And wait
We didn’t solve anything. Let me be clear: Dad isn't suddenly an artist. The hydrangeas are still wilting. But something shifted.
We’re not done. Tara went back to Portland. I’m still here, learning to ask better questions than "How was your day?" Yesterday, I asked, "What color do you feel like today?" He thought about it for a long time and said, "Grey. But with a little bit of orange."
I laughed out of reflex. "You? You hate mess."