Confession

I canít stand Dad calling and blistering me with talk about his day: the things he hasn't repainted, the benches he hasn't refinished, the transmission he hasn't overhauled, the friends he doesn't talk to about the football games they haven't watched, the nights he doesn't sleep through, the speechless fright he feels when he comes across one of Momís old pieces of clothing or Frank Sinatra records, the rotting of his arteries, and the helplessness of his body. 

I canít listen anymore.  I want to change my phone number, move without telling him, or talk about the movies Iíve seen, the books Iíve read, but he doesnít care beyond the fact that his son did those things.  Iím tired of compliant disinterest, of everybody digging at me with their own desires, clawing me until Iím shredded.