I am home again in Fairfax. It is strange to call it “home,” for after months of infrequent visits, I hardly belong. I no longer have a room, and the house continues to change as my family moves in and out, as rooms transform and take on different patterns and colors. I cannot even find my spare clothes in what used to be my walk-in closet. My mother informs me that I can find my basket of clothes in my parents’ closet instead, hiding under shoe boxes and photo albums.
I am constantly reminded that I have left, and upon every visit, someone asks if I am going to return and stay for good. I continue to say no, displeased that I am asked because I hope that by now they would realize I am much better in New York.
But perhaps the hardest part about my short visit is seeing how quiet my father is. My father has always been a reserved man, but these days I hardly hear anything from him. I miss my father’s words. I ask him, rather dumbly, if he is okay. He looks at me quizzically and says, “Why wouldn’t I be?” to which I have no answer. He appears to be immune to everything around him. The worries and struggles that upset us do no bother him. In the car, he says nothing as my mother and I carry a conversation about my sadness and my struggles. I turn to look at my father, who is staring out the window, his sunglasses disabling me from reading his eyes.
Perhaps my father no longer needs to speak. Perhaps his needs are no longer satisfied by words. His silence bothers me, for I have no idea what he is thinking. Is it possible that he no longer wants anything from life?
This possibility not only saddens me, but it also frightens me, for I cannot imagine not wanting anything.