Empoword

Part One: Description, Narration, and Reflection 120 old fanny pack he always carried with him because he couldn’t reach his wallet if it was in his pocket. Yeah, bionic dad would be an improvement. It was around this time that my parents decided to give up the business. That was fine with me; it meant he’d be home all day. Also, his flatbed work truck quickly became our new jungle gym and the stage for many new imaginary games. Maybe it was him not being able to work anymore that finally made it click for me, but I think it was around this time that I started to slow down a bit, wait for him. He could still drive—he just needed help starting the ignition. But now, once we’d get to where we were going, I’d try not to walk too fast. It had begun to occur to me that maybe walking ahead of him was kind of disrespectful or insensitive. In a way, I think that I just didn’t want him to know that my legs worked better than his. So, I’d help him out of the car, offer to carry his fanny pack, and try to walk casually next to him, as if I’d always kept that pace. I got pretty good at doing other stuff for him, too; we all did. He couldn’t really reach above shoulder height anymore, so aside from just procuring cereal boxes from high shelves we’d take turns combing his hair, helping him shave, or changing his shirt. I never minded helping out. I had spent so many years being my dad’s shadow and copying him in every aspect that I possibly could; helping him out like this just made me feel useful, like I was finally a worthy sidekick. I pictured Robin combing Batman’s hair. That probably happened from time to time, right? Once I got to high school, our relationship began to change a bit. I still helped him out, but we had started to grow apart. I now held my own opinions about things, and like most kids in the throes of rebellion, I felt the need to make this known at every chance I got. I rejected his music, politics, TV shows, sports, you name it. Instead of being his shadow we became more like reflections in a mirror; we looked the same, but everything was opposite, and I wasted no opportunity to demonstrate this. We argued constantly. Once in particular, while fighting about something to do with me not respecting his authority, he came at me with his arms crossed in front of him and shoved me. I was taller than him by this point, and his push felt akin to someone not paying attention and accidentally bumping into me while wandering the aisles at the supermarket. It was nothing. But it was also the first time he’d ever done