My father never complains. While my mother, my sister and I always have something to lament about: life, work, the daily routines, the lack of time and what not, my father reads the paper, smiles or falls asleep reading. Yesterday, on our drive back home (I had the car so I went to pick him up from the pharmacy), he was anxious to get home. He was first upset because I was on my way to drop off my friends – I had assumed that like all other days he would take the bus home from work. He was then upset by the fact that I made a U turn to pick him instead of waiting for him to cross over to the Exxon gas station. He then insisted that I change to the left lane, though both lanes seemed to be moving slowly; it was right during rush hour. I, naturally frustrated, hungry and hot, fussed, but eventually gave in and changed lanes (which I hate doing because I’m one of those drivers who likes to stay in one place while driving.) I said nothing else during the ride; neither did he. The long ride of traffic became even longer. I was angry with my father for his paranoia over taking his medicine on time. I was angry that like him, I possess a sense of paranoia over significant and insignificant things like being on time for casual meetings, work, appointments and the like. I was angry that he always corrected me when I drove. I was angry that he was agitated and anxious before completing a task, in this case getting home and drinking his solution for his doctor’s appointment the following day. But what I was really angry with was the fact that my father was aging and I couldn’t accept it. That he was no longer the same man he was nine years ago when I met him, after years of separation, on the American soil. The man who used to drive me around, show me things, take me grocery shopping. He used to drive with care and ease; I used to feel safe next to him. He used to be stronger, more alert and awake. I was angry that day for being angry with my father, who like myself, had come to the same realization.