The self-consciously Dad things you attempted to pass on to your family—arbitrary techniques, fetishistic naming of parts and categories, unexamined dictums—mattered less than the unacknowledged resentment, grievance, and rage.
The inbred entitlement of the once-attractive.
Dinner with an old friend and his younger wife. She is lovely and shy, and in compensation you are more outgoing than usual. As you launch into another story about your friend as you knew him in college, a look passes between them and he squeezes her hand. You realize that her reticence is actually boredom and that dinner is, for them, an obligation to be endured as quickly and painlessly as possible.
He mumbled something about having gone through “some stuff” and then proceeded with a horrific tale of his afflictions, bereavements, addictions and injuries in the ten years since I had last seen him. It was a miracle he was still alive. Nevertheless, I had to admit, he still looked better than I did.
He was hanging by a thread; he felt as though he would disintegrate in a light breeze.
She inwardly cherished the same neurotic traits she despised in the rest of her family.
Something you never figured out: life is what it is, not what it isn’t.