From me to we
Except, how silly it seemed to be extolling my own virtues to a stranger in hopes that she'd glean something that would click with the ideal man on her roster, about whom she told me nothing. As I walked out the agency door and into the sunshine, I tried to shake a nagging, how-is-this-my-life dejection.
I didn't hear a peep until mid-July. What happened to all those men dying to meet me? As I politely deflected questions from pals, I wondered what it meant to be rejected by a matchmaker and vowed to never try to go on another date. Ever.
Then my match called. I let it go to voice mail; I wanted to hear what he had to say before I responded. He had a pleasant voice, very proper. He said our matchmaker advised him I am "the one" for him. And this would be based on...what? Hair colour, charm, education, career? With some trepidation, but still willing to see it through if only for the sake of my curious friends, I returned his call.
Our phone conversation, which felt more like an interview, apparently passed his test. He seemed to like what he heard: pat answers to difficult questions.
Fine. I figured there might be time later for certain truths.
Rediscovering the meaning of "we"
The truth about my relationship with my father? About a year before he died, I went home to Toronto for a week to help my dad move. We'd been estranged for most of my adult life, but recently he'd been calling me regularly and taking an interest in me and my new West Coast life. Still, we barely knew each other. He was giving up his independence at this point; he needed chronic care, and his expression wore the frustration and sadness of this reality. Trying to draw him out, I asked questions about items we were packing up, and about his earlier life. He once had a job laying tile—I knew that—but when he said he was known for his mosaics I finally understood that he possessed a creative soul. This might well be why he had such a hard time being a steady breadwinning family man, the source of many marital fights that were the soundtrack to my childhood.
With weakened defences, and needing help to prepare for his new, diminished life, my dad let me cook for him, drive him to his doctor's appointments, to the store, the barber. I had never experienced such trust from him.
I learned, for me, the most affecting word in the English language is "we"—as in, What should we have for dinner? To hear the first man in my life include me was, to say the least, a relief. I found myself prompting him for responses that required him to use the word.
