This moment...

Remember this moment... this moment at ten to one in the morning, when dad is sitting behind me watching TV, while I'm reading and preparing for my classes for the coming week.

Moments before, dad had returned from his daily visit to the casino, and like always when he comes home so late, he comes up to me in an almost apologetic and guilty manner. Usually he'd say something like: "Oh, you're not asleep yet?" I guess it's a show of concern, a sign that he cares, or at the very least his way of reaching out and trying to make amends after the tantrums in the morning.... or perhaps a way to divert attention from the fact that he came back so late and was out gambling again...

I don't harbour hatred toward him, because there's really no reason to. As usual, I'd ask him whether he's hungry, or whether he wants to have something to drink, and he'd then politely decline, but then go make himself tea or something in the kitchen. I'd ask how his day was, and what he ate for dinner, out of concern, but perhaps also as a way of reaching out to him and trying to tell and show him that whatever happened happened, and that I really don't have any animosity toward him.

I'd be working on the computer, like I am doing now, and he'd then be zapping through the channels on TV in the living room, like he is doing now.

This is a moment to remember, for some reason... a moment when dad and I are together in one room, within a few metres of one another. A moment when we are so close, but, oh, so far apart. A moment when we are breathing the same air, when we are together, and in a sense, 'sharing' and 'bonding'. Perhaps only in silence, but then perhaps this is how dad communicates best.

The moment would soon be over, like so many moments to remember. He'd turn off the TV, and walk slowly upstairs. Before leaving the room, he'd quietly tell me: "Don't go to sleep too late..."
To that, I'd then reply, "OK, I'll just finish this off, and go to bed. You go to bed too, and sleep well." Dad would then retired upstairs in my bedroom, where he's sleeping for the time of his visit, while I sleep on the floor in the living room.

Simple words, short sentences. But they seem to mean so much for some reason.

It's a moment, a moment to remember.

Like the one that just passed.