The Color Wheel

My father has a lot of ties.

He’s monochromatic, just like his ties.

He breaks up the routine with a splash of crimson, worn on special occasions to represent his pledge of brotherhood. And I can’t forget his dash of garnet and gold, worn to represent his pledge to love Bowden forever (even though the last few seasons have been short of the dynasty status created).

I came home this weekend. I’m at my father’s house, sleeping in a room I have no connection to. They call it “my room” but it’s more like a guest room, and is perfect as such because that’s exactly what I feel like when I’m in his presence. A guest. A stranger passing through the night, welcomed to stay but only for a limited time.

The closet is filled with clothes. Not mine of course. My dad hides his suits and ties in here.

The only thing that represents me in this room is a porcelain doll that sits on the dresser. Her cheeks are red. I remember adoring my Addy doll as a child, so I’m sure this curly haired Becky is not mine, but who knows…maybe he won this piece of nostalgia in the divorce settlement.

I don’t know anything about my father. I mean, I know his occupation and that he loves football. That he’s a Republican and loves slender women who wear 20 pearls. But I don’t know him. And he doesn’t know me.

His tie collection is the complete opposite of how I live my life. It’s boring. Stale. Safe.

He always said I was special child. Different. Artsy. Filled with too much spunk to be his.

Maybe that’s why we never clicked; because he lacks color in his life. And like that red tie, I don't work with his everyday attire. I'm only appropriate for special occasions.

And like being my father, that title is only revealed to the world during holidays or graduations. But once the tree is put away or the cap and gown removed he goes back to being the monochromatic Major.

While the crimson tie and I are stored away until the next event.