My father bought a ping pong table.
It’s nothing special. Two sides of green space separated by a thin, rectangular net. Blue and red-halved paddles, built to accentuate each “tick” and “tock” between opposing sides.
He always asks me when I want to play. It’s as if he wants to justify the hassle of getting this table by using it as much as we can. He was the same about his pizza maker, camera, and lawnmower. He’s a dad in normal ways like that, finding color to tint dull days.
Playing with him is quiet.
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Ti- ah, close.”
At times, between hits, a conversation will ripple between us. It’ll be something small; maybe mom’s latest gripes, Shruti’s upcoming dance performance, or pieces of wisdom he likes to impart.”
Mostly though, it’s quiet.
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Ti- ah, I’ll get it.”
It’s a steady beat, one I feel my thoughts playing cadence to. It’s calming, letting me flow as my paddle does.
He spent the first five minutes of our time today adjusting things in our garage. He then felt finicky about how centered the table was, and then about how many balls he could hold. Growing up, these tendencies of his would’ve annoyed me to no end; I would’ve felt that he was wasting time while I just wanted to play. That old feeling hinted upwards still, but now I see things a bit more from his perspective. I realize that he was expressing how he wanted our time together to go smoothly, adjusting small things as his way to protect our time.
I haven’t always liked my dad. I used to feel he was the epitome of who I didn’t want to be. I would then feel frustrated that I still admired him for his intellect and work ethic. We used to argue a lot, especially after my sister was born. Everything, from my independence to his anger, was constantly put on the table with no reprieve. Small times like these, ones where we can quietly enjoy each other’s company across the table, show how far we have come.
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“To-I have another one, leave it.”
I haven’t always been the best son. But he’s been okay with that. In spaces where our conversations ripple, he’s understood the storm which has come before. We’ve both had irrational times with each other, but we always knew that we would always be in each other’s lives. Sometimes, that fact annoyed me more than anything else.
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“To- there we go. Last one?”
“Sure, I’m losing breath anyways.”
Two sides of green space separated by a thin, rectangular net. Blue and red-halved paddles, built to accentuate each “tick” and “tock” between opposing sides. That’s how I used to feel with him. Growing up has allowed me to see that it isn’t that way. At some point, we put down the paddles and walked away together. The ripples calmed, the storm passing.
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick. I technically cheated on the last one.”
“Tock.”
“Tick. Ah well, who’s keeping score anyways.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
…
“Want to play again tomorrow?”
“Sure dad.”