\nMy new father shows up at the park with a withered sunflower.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s all I could afford at the flower shop,\u201d he apologizes.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s not a promising start. He obviously sat on it accidentally, too.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid you even read my profile?\u201d I demand.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou like long walks. And scenic drives. And flowers,\u201d he adds, proud of himself for remembering all these things. \u201cWe can go anywhere, drive anywhere you want.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis car is parked across the street. A gray Ford with cord wrapped around the bumper and a plastic bag taped to a broken window because he \u2018hasn\u2019t gotten around to fixing it since the crash.\u2019\n<\/p>\n
\nI imagine us swerving around a semi, tires squealing over the edge, car junk littering the coast line.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m not going on any long drives in that car, least of all down Highway 1.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe holds up his hands.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHey, that\u2019s fine.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIt isn\u2019t fine, not at all. He walks away, throwing the sunflower into a garbage can.\n<\/p>\n
\nI don\u2019t want to care, but I\u2019ve been alone ever since my last father choked on a chicken bone at KFC and died in the restaurant.\n<\/p>\n
\nIf they can call it a restaurant.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut there\u2019s a nickname for people like me on Adopt-a-Parent.\n<\/p>\n
\nSnifflers.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve seen their scarring profiles. The mournful poses. The bad poetry. They take up crochet and listen to indie bands.\n<\/p>\n
\nNo one wants a Sniffler.\n<\/p>\n
\nThey\u2019re chronically sad, and lethargic, and basically doomed to be alone.\n<\/p>\n
\nAccording to my profile, I\u2019m supposed to be healing. Taking charge of my life again.\n<\/p>\n
\nI speak with exclamation marks! I greet the day with a smile! I sing in my car! I do goat yoga! Because I live life to the fullest! Every day! I am super fun and positive!\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father and I drive to the beach. We do not die. Not then, anyway.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe walk in silence down the boardwalk and stare at seagulls and joggers and surfers. It isn\u2019t relaxing like it\u2019s supposed to be and the silence is awkward and none of us knows what to say.\n<\/p>\n
\nMaybe it will get better in time.\n<\/p>\n
\nDepending on how much time we have.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow about a Matcha Latte!\u201d I exclaim.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father doesn\u2019t understand the concept of whip cream.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAnd why is it green? What\u2019s wrong with plain old black coffee?\u201d he grumbles. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with people these days?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI don\u2019t know where to begin. So that\u2019s at least one thing we have in common.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father looks at me like he sees through my charade. \u201cAre you angry all the time, too?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve been angry all the time for a long time. But if this is a test, I don\u2019t intend to fail.\n<\/p>\n
\nBesides, the membership is expensive and I already work two jobs.\n<\/p>\n
\nI won\u2019t make the same mistake I made with my second father.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe neediness, the crying. The snotty kind.\n<\/p>\n
\nI was in a bad place back then.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cClean yourself up,\u201d he had reprimanded. He was looking for someone to watch the game with, someone to go fishing with, this wasn\u2019t what he ordered. Even though I rattled off stuff like \u2018tackle\u2019 and \u2018bait\u2019 to impress him, terms I had read up on the internet.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt didn\u2019t work. He left me a two star rating.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s taken me a while to recover my reputation.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve been through a lot of fathers and none come close to the original. But if I\u2019m not careful, I\u2019ll start to sound like a Sniffler.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father invites me over for a home cooked meal.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis wife, Brenda, watches a lot of the food network and cooks dishes with old world names like \u2018casserole\u2019 and \u2018meatloaf\u2019.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s delicious,\u201d I lie.\n<\/p>\n
\nTheir house is something out of a sixties sitcom; floral wallpaper, pink carpeting, and shelves jammed with plates \u201cfrom our wedding\u201d. There are random pieces of furniture everywhere. They\u2019d take me on a tour, but they \u201chaven\u2019t gotten around to organizing\u201d.\n<\/p>\n
\nWedged in-between all the stuff, there\u2019s a framed photo of them next to a little boy in overalls.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOur son Walter,\u201d my new father explains.\n<\/p>\n
\nI don\u2019t ask what happened to him. I\u2019ve heard enough sad stories.\n<\/p>\n
\nAdopt-a-Parent holds a circle every month. They check in on our progress. They give us a \u2018sharing space\u2019 to talk about our feelings and complain, but mostly they want testimonials.\n<\/p>\n
\nI never have anything to say, but still I show up because the food is catered from my favorite Indian-Vietnamese-Jamaican-fusion restaurant.\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nAs usual, the Snifflers loiter in the back of the room, moodily sipping cocktails and muttering about their infirmities. Others, the five-stars, take to the stage and brag about how great they\u2019re doing, how well they\u2019re getting along with their new parent. They laugh at their own inside jokes.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHarry just gets me, you know?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI smile and affirm because I am engaging! I am a participator!\n<\/p>\n
\nA Sniffler raises his hand. \u201cMy friends just don\u2019t understand. Why are you always hanging out with this random old guy? They think it\u2019s weird.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Founder speaks up. \u201cThis is your journey, not theirs. You do you. Whatever you need to survive. When you\u2019re grieving, there is no such thing as Weird.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIf only that were true.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut everyone nods in agreement because it\u2019s exactly what they want to hear.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father and I drive to the beach.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe walk in silence down the boardwalk and stare at seagulls and joggers.\n<\/p>\n
\nI start to notice more details about him, like how he walks with a limp and how his coat is covered in dog hair even though he doesn\u2019t own a dog.\n<\/p>\n
\nI think about the guy at the Adopt-a-Parent circle with the dad called Harry. The Harry who \u2018just gets him\u2019.\n<\/p>\n
\nI wonder if that will ever be me, if that will ever be us, if anyone will ever \u2018get\u2019 me ever again.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow about one of those green coffees?\u201d my new father suggests.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe\u2019s trying.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut I\u2019m not in the mood today. Today I feel like a Sniffler.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat happened to Walter?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father looks suspicious at my sudden curiosity about his son. I hope he doesn\u2019t see the desperation in my eyes, the wanting, like a junkie needing a fix of sadness.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOne day he was there, next he wasn\u2019t,\u201d he says simply.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIsn\u2019t that everyone?\u201d I reply glumly.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe doesn\u2019t deny it.\n<\/p>\n
\nI go into hibernation mode and it feels like home.\n<\/p>\n
\nOld sweaters. Blackout curtains. Showering feels like a waste of time. I listen to as many indie bands as I can stand and reflect on my suffering in true Sniffler fashion. My grief crawls out of crevices and worms its way into song lyrics and reprimands me for neglecting it for so long.\n<\/p>\n
\nNo one calls or knocks on the door and I\u2019m pretty sure I\u2019ve been forgotten, erased, that my existence is uninteresting to the world. I start to wonder if I exist at all. I\u2019m tempted to order takeout just to see a human face, or to call up a random number so I can hear a living voice on the line.\n<\/p>\n
\nDays later, I finally emerge from my front door.\n<\/p>\n
\nI don\u2019t know what I was expecting. Maybe an apocalyptic wasteland, the ashen vestiges of a Blitzkrieg or a frozen tundra of an ice age. Something to mark the passage of time, to excuse humanity for abandoning me.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut everything looks idyllically untouched. The cars are driving by. People are riding bicycles. The dogs are barking. The sky is still blue. Nothing has changed and no one cares.\n<\/p>\n
\nExcept.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere\u2019s a brown paper bag on the doorstep, my name clumsily written on the front with a sharpie.\n<\/p>\n
\nI look inside.\n<\/p>\n
\nMeatloaf.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s a little moldy, but still edible if I scrape off the edges.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy new father and I walk down the beach. We stare at the surfers and the seagulls.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe still doesn\u2019t understand Matcha Latte and I still despise meatloaf and we both pretend there\u2019s nothing we enjoy more.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe still don\u2019t talk. Unlike me, he is not afraid of silence. Unlike me, he isn\u2019t afraid of where it will take him.\n<\/p>\n
\nSome day, I don\u2019t know when, the silence isn\u2019t awkward anymore.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt just is.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe will never be \u2018Harry who gets me\u2019 and I will never be Walter, but we are resigned. Resignation is part of grief, too. A new chapter or a stepping stone or insert-zen-metaphor, whatever you want to call it.\n<\/p>\n
\nApparently it\u2019s better than being angry all the time.\n<\/p>\n
\nI think. I don\u2019t know, I heard it somewhere. Probably in the Adopt-a-Parent FAQ but don\u2019t quote me on it.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe can\u2019t all be five star ratings, but at least we\u2019re trying.\n<\/p>\n
Anna Koltes is a Germerican based out of Chicago. She enjoys writing dark humor and talking about writing with her writing group.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My new father shows up at the park with a withered sunflower. \u201cIt\u2019s all I could afford at the flower shop,\u201d he apologizes. It\u2019s not a promising start. He obviously sat on it accidentally, too. \u201cDid you even read my profile?\u201d I demand. \u201cYou like long walks. And scenic drives. And flowers,\u201d he adds, proud …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107938,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20129],"tags":[20130],"class_list":["post-140281","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-48-summer-2023","tag-the-colored-lens-48-summer-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140281","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107938"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140281"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140281\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140282,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140281\/revisions\/140282"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140281"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140281"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140281"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}