My dad and I don't do feelings. We do logistics. "Did you eat?" "Is the rent paid?" "Why is your hair like that in the photo?"
So when I finally called my dad back this week, after dodging three of his calls — not because I was busy but because I didn't have the energy to be okay out loud — I did it from a bench in Astoria Park, facing the Hellgate Bridge.
The N train had dropped me at Astoria Boulevard and I'd walked down without a plan. I just needed water on my left and sky everywhere else.
We talked about cricket. India had played. He gave me a full over-by-over recap I did not ask for. I let him. Because when I finally called my dad back, what I actually heard underneath the scorecard was: I miss you, beta, and I don't know how to say it in a language that won't make us both uncomfortable.
So I said, "You should've seen the match with me." And he went quiet. And then he said, "Next time you come, we will."
That's how my family says I love you. Through the promise of a future match.
A kid was learning to bike near the water. The sun was doing that gold thing it does to the East River around 7. Astoria Park in June is unfairly beautiful, like it knows you came here to feel something and decided to help.
I told him I had to go. I didn't, really. But there's only so much tenderness a Patel can absorb before short-circuiting.
We hung up. I sat there a while longer.
Call your father back. The cricket is just an excuse for both of you.
Love,