I averaged nearly 20,000 steps a day last week. Those steps were executed as I chaperoned my father on his trip to Kyoto. He could hardly ambulate without assistance and the trip was ambitious at the very least. Together we walked the treacherous footpaths of the temples and imperial villas in the ancient city.
Graveled paths and uneven stone steps rendered wheelchairs utterly useless. An imperial guard tsk-tsked as my father stumbled on the imperial moss. There was a tiny, pretentious stone bridge (of course), a naked bridge without rails, basically a stone slab over the pond too narrow for us to walk hand in hand. Miraculously he managed to cross the bridge without falling into the imperial koi pond. Chaperoning was all exhausting. I was getting irritated, irritated by the guard’s smug impatience and my father’s overconfidence. Plus my father was talking too loudly, bragging about his past glory, which included pathetic name dropping, etc, etc, stuff nobody cares about. I stopped being mortified by his narcissism years ago but I do loathe anything that disturbs soundscape, so I tersely told him to hush. My father is a parvenu who is not used to being told off. He was already in a foul mood anyway, now that I fueled his snit, a tantrum was to ensue.
We returned to our car and he was verbally abusive to our chauffeur. This is how his tantrums begin usually. Silently I composed an apology note to the chauffeur which I was going to send via WhatsApp later. The chauffeur was some sort of a saint, he slowed the car and announced to us that we were approaching the Shinto sanctuary my late mother adored. It was not included in our itinerary but I told him, “drop me here.” I left my father in the car and started walking towards the sanctuary alone, which infuriated him even more but I did not care. I needed my mother. How did she put up with dad for so many years? He is a monster, and that is a euphemism. He prevented me from attending my mother’s funeral out of spite (trivia: Jimi Hendrix’s dad did exactly the same and Jimi never forgave him). My father is capable of doing anything out of spite. I’ve been heartbroken for 7 years now, still haven’t forgiven myself for not attending my mother’s funeral. Forgiveness is such a vapid concept anyway, I couldn’t care less, but I desperately want my mother to know that I loved her more than anyone in this world. Adjacent to the shrine there is a primeval grove named “Forest of Atonement.” Mother often talked about the stream that runs through the grove. She wanted to bring me here. The stream was small and quiet, its bed as crimson as she described. The dusk started to descend. Mother receded towards the twilight that was erasing the vermilion Torii gate.
The chauffeur called. He informed me that my father decided to visit another place my mother liked, some obscure museum, and he took off all by himself, refusing the chauffeur’s assistance. “I can’t find your father,” said he. I was not concerned. “He will be okay, he is always okay,” I reassured him. Sure enough, my father emerged, his gait unsteadier than ever, appearing a little shook up. “I fell down,” he stammered. “I thought I broke my glasses.” The fall humbled him. He was quiet rest of the day and content with sightseeing without exiting the car. I watched him pressing his forehead against the car window, sometimes craning his neck trying to get a better view of the city, his mouth wide open like a child. Occasionally he mumbled to himself, “oh I see the streets Grandpa liked,” “I called my wife from that tower a week before she died, and she told me about the tiny garden over there.” He was tracing the paths that were loved by those who once cared about him. No, I and my father will never get along, but I discovered that maybe, maybe I do care about him after all, and that I will visit Kyoto again sometime in the near future, to trace the stone steps we walked, to reconnect with him, to try to hear his loud obnoxious voice traveling between the imperial pines.
Photo: Tadasu no Mori (糺の森) “Forest of Atonement” Kyoto, Japan
