F.Mulder

My father has never hugged me. Not when I was born. Not at my graduation. Not when I left home. That's normal for a Japanese father his age. Love is a full gas tank when you visit. A bag of oranges handed over without a word. Last month, my friend from Texas came to dinner at my parents' house. When it was time to go, he did what Texans do. He hugged my mother. Then he turned around and hugged my father. My father froze. Arms straight down. Like a soldier being hugged by a bear. Three seconds. Nobody breathed. After he left, my father sat at the table for a long time. Then he said: "In America… do they do that with their fathers too?" "Every time," I said. He nodded. That was all. Two weeks later, I went home for dinner. When I was leaving, my father stood up, walked to the door, and put his arms around me. Badly. Like he was assembling furniture with no instructions. I'm over forty. It was the first time. He let go, looked at the floor, and said, "Drive safely." My mother told me later he'd been practicing on the dog.