Ahhh, Port. The family therapist of wines.
An Open Letter To My Father:
You've been a really good dad. You taught me all the important things in life, like how to work hard for the things you want and to never give up, even in the wake of failure. You taught me patience and persistence, and tenacity as well as grace.
And you did it all with the emotional availability and warmth of a 1960s-era father figure. You never expressly said the words, but I knew you loved me. Like the time I worked really hard for that A-minus in algebra, and you said you were disappointed it wasn't an A. Or how you never came to cheer me on at any of my after-school events because you were busy "putting that food on the table." I get it. You want the best for me. But you're the strong silent type.
So when you stand in front of me now, fourth or fifth glass of Renwood Vintage Port in hand, blubbering on about how proud you are of me and how much you love me, it's awkward. Awkward like it was when we'd be watching a movie and a sex scene would come on and you'd make an excuse to leave the room. Or awkward like how at the age of 35, you still try to relate to me with anecdotes from my childhood. IT WAS 20 YEARS AGO, FOR CHRISSAKE! I DON'T LOVE POGS ANYMORE.
I know you love me, Dad. I've always known. So please, put down the wine and let's go watch sports or something. Are you ... CRYING? OK, good talk. I'm just gonna back away slowly now and ...
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