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My father, wearing a suit and tie, commuted five days a week to and from his job at an architectural firm. I wore coveralls to my chosen profession as a house painter. He designed buildings, and I painted them. I once owned a gorgeous black wool suit with white flecks, but I wore it out of pleasure, not as a uniform requirement. I also owned a tuxedo, a beautiful sleek outfit with a bow tie and cummerbund for special occasions. I have one photo of my father in a tuxedo on the occasion of his marriage, which didn't end up as full of joy and love as p[romised.
My father died the year he turned forty-nine, so I never knew him becoming an old man. Distant from my grandfathers, I didn't pay much mind to their aging, perceiving them as a staticy presence that never changed. So, when I turned fifty, I realized I had entered middle age with only a sketchy map.
By then, I had moved on to my second business, a gym that bloomed under my guidance. Unfortunately, my father only worked for a boss, and as his life went downhill after the divorce, he suffered from being fired from one job after another until he drifted into dementia lockdown. I began to feel the gaps in my map — there were murky depressed zones I moved in and out of that I didn't understand, and emotional fits of rage and violent expression. I recall my father's violent outbursts, and I wondered if he might…
