Continued conversations about music and their reflection of the culture in which they are embedded, and how to look and observe the world without bias (as much as that is possible).
All around a breakfast table of strawberry shortcake and rice balls and mango cubes. Kekeke.
Dad feels convicted to find folk music of other cultures and learn to appreciate them in their historical context. Snaps and yippy yays!!
Mom is unimpressed and asks if we would like more coffee.
And I have a wake-up moment, light shining on a thought that had probably been there a long while, just lying dormant and unassuming: Mom and dad are…reeeeally different. He’s so into theoretical conversations; she lives and breathes the practical. I realized that and said it out loud and looked at dad, who confirmed with a knowing (tired? resigned? ah — at-peace) look. “Yep,” he said.
“So what do you guys talk about? Just…the practical, day-to-day stuff, huh.”
“Yep,” he said. Not unsmiling. He’s okay with that.
On a not-wholly-unrelated note: This afternoon loungy chat on the couch was so good. It’s almost as if he’s more precious to me now — truly, in a way that makes it easier to resist PT because I know I don’t want to mess this up. And leave unintended, unnecessary traces and memories. And because I know I don’t need the additional confirmation of our okay-, our good-ness at the moment.
So we had made some small talk and some big talk and he helped me finish off making that pan-ful of pasta and then I sent him along on his merry way with a hug and a kiss blown through the car window, like the dorks we are.