Bishop Rosa

April 17, 2011
        I’m sitting on my bed, sobbing with my entire body, when there’s a knock on my door. I don’t want to deal with more barging in. I can’t handle that right now.

But he comes in anyway.

My dad comes to sit beside me on the bed, until he sees me wincing away, recoiling at his closeness. He settles for the foot of my bed, a calculated distance apart.

“Are you ok?”

What a dumb question. Do I look like I’m ok?

I stare at him with watery eyes, and he must be encouraged by something there—maybe a flicker of hope or love escaping through my wall and sending a flickering SOS signal to him through my eyes—because he continues.

“I’m sorry.”

I’m at loss for words. Is he seriously apologizing?

“I’m sorry Jessica. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not a good enough father. I feel like I’ve failed you in some way.”

I remain stunned. What do you say to something like that anyway? Would he like me to tell him that it’s ok that he and mom have pushed me to the edge, further and further away, that it’s ok that he never listens or tries to understand me?

He’s not a failure though. Not in the least. If he’s a failure, then I should already be in hell. 

Although, with the reckless way I’ve been behaving recently, maybe hell is where you and I belong anyway.

“I just want you to be a good Bishop’s daughter; I need you to be a good example, and obey, and be true to the church. I don’t know how to help you be that.”

And there it is. He’s failed me, and I’ve failed him. So maybe we’re even?

 “I just wanted to tell you that.” He rises to leave.

And I don’t stop him. I still don’t want to talk to him. I need time for myself, time to process stuff and get things straight in my mind.

He closes the door on his way out, and I can’t help but thinking how maybe he’s just as lost and confused as I am.